With All of the Relics Around Here, He Doesn't Need My Help

The undertaker's elder daughter isn't pale.
She's tan as toast, and she is very fond of me.
I see her running on my street, on mornings
Such as this, her shadow churning through
My hedge and far across the lawn. I wave.
I do not talk to her. She's busy. In an hour,
Though, I'll chase her down the course she's
Run to meet her at her father's house. We'll
Have some coffee on the porch, and walk
Into what passes for the center of this little
Town. We've seen the things in all
The windows. We don't see them anymore.
Instead, we watch each other's eyes. We
Mine them, as we chatter, for their warmth,
For reassurance that the joy we found one
Night last summer is intact. It always is.
One day, last week, she turned and said,
“If you abandon me, you'll give my dad
Something to do, as I am sure I'd die.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 58 times
Written on 2010-05-03 at 15:30

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