Forty Years of Internal Exile

I don't need a hearing aid, a supplement
To Medicare, a warranty on my old car.
I don't feel any urge to give more
Money to the schools I paid and left
So many years ago, nor do I want to pad
The pensions of retired officers. A lot
Of them belong in jail. I'd rather not
Have what I'm offered. All that I would
Like to have, would gladly pay to see
Come back, would be the company
Of those bright lights with whom I used
To work, the Marxists and the devotees
Of literature, history, and dance and music,
Anything above the squalid sludge
Of Christianity and sports, and those few
Other wretched interests of the peasants
Hereabout. The freshness of the air
I used to breathe was due to ocean
Breezes. Here, so far from any coast,
The atmosphere is still and stale,
And there's no clever conversation,
Only outstretched hands.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 38 times
Written on 2021-10-29 at 00:35

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