Communion, not Commerce

Creature of a sort, perhaps a colony, the city lives,
And must sustain itself. The din and stench
Of commerce fill our senses everywhere we look.
The streets are jammed with roaring trucks and
Wage slaves riding motorbikes, the air a cocktail
Of exhaust, and, even here, within an alley, at
A table, drinking wine, the dismal business
Of survival looms. See how our server sighs.
She'll force a smile for a euro. Only we would
Seem immune, and only briefly, after work.
I want you near because I do. You needn't
Bring a thing.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 223 times
Written on 2019-04-17 at 19:02

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