Perspective

“Concentrate,” she tells me as she grips my face
With both her hands. “The world isn't only news.
In fact, from here, the news is but a nightmare
Someone else should have. Look out across
The frozen fields and watch the hawks patrol
The sky. Go see your kids. Look at this home
You've made. Rejoice that you have me, if only
For a couple days.” She's right. She almost
Always is. The endless wars and miseries,
The foul corruption, rottenness, from racism
To sexism, the other forms of degradation,
Flourish elsewhere. They're not here, and
Though the homes across the street, and in
The valley, harbor superstitious bigots, ugly
Bumpkins, I don't have to care. She's here.
I'm warm. The view is pretty. My kids,
And their own, are smart and good. They're not
The sort of trash who drag the species,
Like great magnets, toward its well-deserved
Abyss. I take those hands which gripped my
Face and kiss each finger. Then I say,
“The news is not, I guess. It's old.” It's time
I turned away.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 35 times
Written on 2020-02-01 at 01:10

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