A Specter Speaks

Struggling to stay upright against a raw
November wind, and drunk, and old,
And ever more convinced that art's
A stupid calling, certain now that all
Of my life's flesh has been gnawed off
And chewed so long it hasn't any flavor,
I move toward my pauper's flat,
An aesthete wanting columns, arches,
In a wasteland filled with cubes,
Intent on nothing more than one last
Bourbon in my ghastly kitchen before
I head off to bed, I spy two kids, a precious
Couple, courting, it would seem (their eyes
Are locked, they have such vacant smiles).
She is sitting on a wall, while he moves
Back and forth below. I cannot hear what
They are saying, shouldn't, and don't, want
To know. I fish within my pocket for
My few remaining coins of hope to toss
To them, to urge them on. Be lovers!
Search for columns, arches. Lean,
And grip each other. Be prepared
To fight the wind.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 152 times
Written on 2019-10-10 at 02:44

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