Time Machine

We can redeem this fucked-up country.
I believe we have, at least within the confines
Of this diner. You and I, like recreations
Of the days, the guileless lovers, common
(So the movies said) before the callow lads
Who saved the planet became fat and crooked,
Cruel, altogether too much like the ones
They'd blown away, loll at the counter,
Malts in hand, and tender thoughts
Of small-scale satisfaction tickling our minds.
The future (meaning these next minutes)
Promises to keep us pleased. The threat
Posed by our culture, flags and soldiers,
Shouts of USA!, and armed white men
With twisted faces, cannot reach us while
We're here. These stools keep us off
The ground. These drinks assure our lives
Are sweet, and you're the only one I want
Beside me here or anywhere. For now,
This portion of the country, counter, stools
And checkered tiles, seems set off from
What's fucked up, and feels almost
Redeemed.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 62 times
Written on 2020-01-23 at 21:06

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