As the Daylight Dies

The day dies. The big prize (whatever it
May be) recedes, and I'm here on your
Couch again, a gentleman, who's trading
Bon mots. Conversation, isn't that a thing
Of value in itself? That may be what some
Eunuch says. Well, yes, a little conversation
Greases certain sorts of skids. The hunting
Party hoots together. Bureaucrats grow
Somewhat closer. Still, down deep, what
Gnaws, the urge, is mute, and heralds
Fornication. Talk, the cliché holds, is
Cheap. It's wasted time assayed against
The thrust of lust, of DNA. Let's stop
This talking, doff our clothes, retreat into
Your bedroom to do that one thing we're
Meant to do, and, thereby, let life stagger
Forward as the daylight dies.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 37 times
Written on 2021-05-25 at 02:41

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