Tick TockThe time, ticked off by an old handed clock,
Makes an old man of me. When was I young?
I can't remember. Fuzzy images of someone,
Hopeless, on foot, somewhere in a city by a bay
Up north, a man turned out of his apartment
By the woman he had loved, exiled, walking toward
A home which never had seemed home to him.
The clock ticks forward forty years, and, now,
The man sits staring at a valley nowhere near
The bay, the siren song of someone there
Propelling him, like chimney smoke, from
Fields and comfort toward an end most likely
To be just so bad as that which came before.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2019-08-14 at 00:37
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