Torn

Magda understands that I'm unable to be true
To her, a consequence of where she lives.
I love her face, her disposition, both her
Breasts, her hips, her way of somehow
Soaking up my sorrows. I could live
With her, I think, if I could live in Kansas City,
But I can't. I must commute from Omaha,
And, when I do, I spend the weekend
Loving Magda, but, when Sunday evening
Comes, I bolt in search of barbecue,
And carry ribs and hickory smoke
Back north, along the Interstate, and Magda
Gets a thank-you note, while I succumb
To greasy bliss. Which matters more,
These ribs or Magda? I can't say I know.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 91 times
Written on 2019-12-05 at 01:37

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