You Don't Call Her "Honey," Do You?

“She cloys,” he said. Perhaps she does
To him. I said I'm fine with her. These
Shortened days are harsh and dreary.
Fire, faced in solitude, is feeble warmth.
When she is near, the fire's fierce. The
Coals within my heart, long banked,
Return to glowing. Sweetness, friend
(I didn't say), is sustenance. I am alive
Because of what I get from her, and you
(I also didn't say) are doubly bitter, first,
Because of what I have, and, second,
Because she, who, scowling, clings to
You, has long ago forgotten how to cloy.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 19 times
Written on 2010-12-28 at 22:57

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