Superfluous

I've become what any perceptive observer
Would have predicted: superfluous. Her
Life passes pleasantly far from me. It was
Not this way once, when she floundered,
In limbo, fresh out of school, out of work,
Without prospects. I'd make things for dinner
For her, and I'd listen (it's rare to find someone
Who does that these days), and I'd tell her
To be brave. Somebody would want her.
When somebody did, I was just in the way,
And my messages no longer prompted her answers.
The meals I made only were served to myself.
Every so often, she'll claim that she's missed me.
She hasn't. Her life has filled out, and, as
Anyone might have predicted, I no longer
Matter to her.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 35 times
Written on 2021-08-31 at 12:31

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