Recalling What's-her-name

I search in vain for reasons for wishing she
Loved me. All have escaped me now. Last
In a line of conventional women, married
To marriage and life in America, home
And hearth, and church, and meals made
Of shit that comes in colorful packages,
One beer an evening, and sensible shoes,
She had nothing to say. She shied from me
Anytime others could see us, and, once she
Was gone, she wouldn't respond to the
Letters I sent. This can't happen again.
I will wait for the woman whose madness is
Evident, one with opinions and spirit, who spits
On her predecessors, sharing my spite. In the
Gale that hammers the walls of convention,
We'll howl by a fire we've made for ourselves,
And I'll know why I wanted her love.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 27 times
Written on 2010-12-21 at 22:53

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