Sifting

She says she's mine. She says a lot of things.
I've had to improvise a sort of sieve to try
To separate the words which may be true
From those which don't mean anything.
I bought her dinner. We both ate. The food,
She said, was fairly good, but she left most
Of hers untouched. I brought her home.
She smiled coyly, stripped off almost all
Her clothes, and rolled upon the couch
With me, but then she dressed and drove
Away, and I, stuck watching an old movie
By myself, looked at the sieve. She'd said
That she is mine, but it's unlikely that she is.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 58 times
Written on 2020-08-31 at 00:51

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