Vagabond

You don't owe me anything, I realize.
What am I to you? Almost a ghost,
I come and go. You rise to find a dirty
Plate beside the sink, perhaps a note
Which says no more than, “I'll be back,”
And you discard it; rightly so. When
Things are good, I stroke your neck
And hold you tightly on the sofa. When
They're good, my wallet's fat, and I
Don't stint on gifts for you, but, honestly
(As you well know), my wallet's typically
Not fat, and my affections come off as
Prepayments for another meal. I swear
That isn't what they are, that you don't owe
Me anything. I quake in terror every time
I'm knocking on your door.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 24 times
Written on 2020-02-28 at 19:14

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