A Life, Projected Overhead

You're here now, Missy, muse,
But you're not really here. You
Are transparent, almost like an
Overlay in some poor science
Teacher's class, the cambium,
The epidermis, last to be
Perceived, above the others.
I remember them. The bookish
Woman; my first love. I rode
A bicycle to her, to sit in
Squirmy silence as her husband
Handled frogs nearby, and, anyway,
She seemed to see the greater
Merit in my friend. I spied
A Sarah Lawrence grad, and
Caught her, clad in New York's
Mannered imitation avant-garde.
I spent a couple years with her,
Until she threw me out, and, then,
I chased a cocktail waitress, but
She hadn't any use for me, and
Lost, at home, I happened on
The woman who has borne all
Of my children, though I love
Her not. She stirred me once.
I can't say why. And there was
One I worked with who was
Strangely fetching. She
Remains, but I take care to
Keep her out of reach. And
One, a lawyer's wife, almost
Was mine, almost, upon a curb,
Within a parking lot, and in her
Kitchen, smoking cigarettes.
She had me come into her room.
She had me help her write the
Papers she would need for her
Divorce, but, in the end, the
Money proved a bigger draw
Than love, and there was one
Way down in south Missouri
She went off to marry someone
Who looked much like me,
And, here, there was a precious
Girl, seventeen, who came to
Look, then left, afraid, as I had
Done before, and, now, the
Overlay. You are the one I
Cherish, Missy, but I fear
That you will go, and I will be
Alone without a muse. I offer
Love to you. You offer, what,
Transparency? You lay, I cannot
Touch you, over others, most
Of them untouched, and I,
Inspired, write, but, after all
Of this, remain alone.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 23 times
Written on 2010-03-12 at 11:48

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