I'll Call You This Weekend

Undone! A virus eats me, love,
And eats my love, and any other
Elements of willfulness. I'm on
My couch inside a fog. The TV's
On, and on it are the images of
All of what seemed so important
Days ago: the murderers, the
Scoundrels telling lies to keep
Their cushy jobs, and always,
Every several minutes, pitches
For the useless things we all
Must buy to gain respect. I'm
Falling back. I cannot rise,
And all I've bought are juice
And tissues, medicines whose
Makers claim will clear my
Head. They haven't yet. You
Say you'd like to come. You
Can, but I am dull and apathetic,
Not the one who, heretofore,
Had brightened to your face
And voice. I think you ought
To stay away. I do not want
You eaten, and to be the next
Undone.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 20 times
Written on 2010-09-10 at 14:54

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