Old Bones

Her mother told me she will be married
Sometime in the spring. I didn't care.
I loved her once, but not for years,
The poems I had written for her
Show how much she meant to me
Back then, but now, like every other
Feature of my blurry past, she's bleached
Of all significance, old bones, stepped
Over, barely seen. Such numbness
Issues from depression, therapists
And doctors say, and I suppose
That they would treat it as they do
The greater ill, with endless blather,
Little pills which don't accomplish
Anything, and, in the end, this place
I've reached, whatever once was fine
Or tragic, frightening, joyous, turns
To dust and blows away. The woman's
Mother made a point of telling me
The man her daughter plans to marry
Is the first she's ever liked. I shrugged.
What difference does that make?
Her opinion, like her daughter, means
Nothing to me.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 24 times
Written on 2020-11-06 at 21:46

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