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I'd rather not be what I am, a fraud,
And I would rather that this Juliet
Was only what she seemed to be
The day she called: another
Undergraduate intent on learning
More about the tools central banks
Employ to stimulate demand. I
Saw her as a hundred others, girls
Dressed in dowdy clothes, with
Glasses, without much appeal
Except to milksop boys her age,
Accounting students, engineers,
And she, and all the others, would,
At some point, pair and graduate,
And move to houses in the suburbs,
Into jobs with futures bright and
Dull as they, and I'd be finished
With them soon enough to hit
Some bar at happy hour, during
Which I'd snivel after matrons my
Age on the make. But, no, she
Isn't dowdy. She is like a perfect
Piece of fruit, a shapely, most
Delicious thing, which, I, despite
My droning and my efforts not
To look too long, am aching not
To educate, but to possess and then
Consume, but she has been here
Twenty minutes, staring at me
Earnestly, and taking notes, and,
Doubtless, doesn't see me for
What I've become, the man who
Wants her most of any. She accepts
The fraud. I glance up at the
Clock, and out the window at the
Setting sun. Happy hour's almost
Over. This is hopeless. Won't she
Go? She rises, but she isn't leaving.
In her eyes, a second purpose seems
To show. Another fraud! She pulls
Herself against me, making clear
She wants a kiss.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 22 times
Written on 2011-02-01 at 20:26

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