Exiled

Why don't I just go?, you ask. The charms of these
Suburban wastes are lost on me. This is a land
Of sleekly inoffensive trash designed for undistinguished
Drones, for lawyers and accountants, dentists,
Business owners, engineers, whose lives don't bleed
Past what they do and what they're told they ought
To be. They look alike. They dress alike. The houses
They inhabit all are painted very much alike, and every
Thought they have's been thought for them, so why
Don't I just drive into the city, where I'd feel at home
Among the hobbling immigrants, the Spanish speakers,
Blacks, aristocrats and hipsters, people with some
Substance to them, living in apartments and old
Bungalows just down their streets from bars and coffee
Shops and stores, a world of worn and wondrous things?
Because it is no longer mine. It's meant for those
Within it, who arrive on foot or riding buses, going
Home at any time and, likewise always coming back.
I'd have to drive from far away, and have to stay
Until my day was over. Then, I'd drive again. My
Presence would be artificial. I'm not urban anymore.
I'm out of place out here.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 41 times
Written on 2020-01-28 at 18:59

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