Last in Line

These ghosts appear, not even ghosts, just names
And hazy images of women I loved once. Now,
All have gone, and none of them is missed.
On nights like this, I wonder, honestly, without
Nostalgia, why I let them get away, and whether
My life might have turned out better if I hadn't.
There's no way that I can know, and, anyway,
In almost every case, it wasn't me who left.
I greet each one, then say goodbye. I drain
My drink, and go to bed, and, in the morning,
I pretend that this most recent love remains,
But she does not. She's one more ghost,
A disembodied name.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 176 times
Written on 2019-03-09 at 04:05

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