Bohemian Days

Those were days, self-consciously perfect days.
There wasn't a way we could make them last,
But, while we were in them, our dreams had come
True: bohemian purity, poverty, squalor, a north-
Facing room in what had been a hospital, silent
And empty, a hot plate, no stove, and coffee
And painting, not one ever finished, but each
There to contemplate as we'd discuss appropriate
Topics, egg tempera, Vermeer, Roethke, sometimes;
He would throw me a bone. The coffee would be
Gone by just about four, then the beer would come out
And we'd start smoking cigarettes up on the roof on
A pair of old chairs, looking out at an ocean, two lakes,
And the mountains, the Cascades off east, Olympics
Out west. When it got very late, I'd walk to my
Apartment some miles away, past the raccoons
And trash, and I'd smoke and write poetry,
Living the dream. The hospital ended up sold
Off for condos, artists unwelcome, and I moved
Away. No paintings survived. So much poetry has.
Most was written long after those days.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2020-01-29 at 01:55

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