Destiny

I do not believe in choice. One ends up
Doing what he had been destined to do.
Nonetheless, I look over my shoulder at places
I might have liked to have gone, paths
I passed to my regret. I'm all right here.
I can't complain. This fine old country
House, this isolation in a land of crops
And soil, crude and cultureless, is home.
I'm not the kind of man who spends
A lot of time with friends of any sort.
I have few friends, and none from near
Here. I don't farm or go to church,
And those around me aren't inclined
To turn their heads from troughs and TVs
Toward arts of any sort, or even complex
Thought. I am, then, something of a dandy
Stranded on this frigid steppe, unloved
By peasants I don't love, and, sometimes,
That leads me to wish I hadn't left the city.
There, I did have friends who had ideas,
Who knew and liked the arts. I'd argue
Marxist politics with Stan each week.
We'd meet for breakfast. Mike and I
Would go out for the Tuesday fish and chips
Buffet, and discuss art, and Doug and I
Would drink, at home, in bars, and ponder
Poetry and novels (and the asses
Of the waitresses). Eric was an opera buff,
And Marge, his wife, could lead one through
Scholasticism's thorny vines. John,
The beatnik, somewhat older, seemed
To know most everything.
Mike just told me John has died,
And he and Doug and I, for reasons
Neither clear nor logical, have fallen out.
We do not talk. They're far away,
And that's okay most days. I'm fine
Alone. I get to write, and, anyway,
It's pointless to bemoan one's destiny.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 52 times
Written on 2020-01-02 at 17:53

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