I Can't Feel it

Birds glide gracefully before a setting sun
And purple clouds: a dentist's office dream
Of life. The corn, as yet unharvested, is gold
Upon the valley floor, another soothing,
Cliched vision. In the pool, the water's clear,
Still warm enough for me to swim. I could
Be one of Watteau's subjects, shallow,
Satisfied and doomed. A little trimming
Of the hedge out front would lead those
Passing by to mutter, “That guy has it made.”
Perhaps I do. I'll never know. There's no
Joy left in me.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 140 times
Written on 2019-09-27 at 02:35

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