Scorched

Heat, a tiresome metaphor; then again,
Also the state of my part of the planet
When each became dear to me. The mousy
Historian, Gotham punk, the book warehouse
Coworker, barrister's wife; all the others I
Chased, panting, through searing parking
Lots, liquefied streets, apartments, like ovens,
Without air conditioning. Sweating
From temperature, terror of failure,
I failed more than once. I failed after
Succeeding, and skulked away, often
Enough to have learned, though I
Didn't, that summer's a bad time for
Love. Maybe fall, when its pall puts
Such things into sharper and cooler
Light, would be better for me. I can't
Know. I'm convinced I won't learn
Anytime. Another love will appear. With
Her, heat, and the subsequent downward
Spiral to misery. It's a pattern which grips
Me, one, I'm afraid, from which I lack
The means to escape.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 39 times
Written on 2021-07-13 at 12:34

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