At Sunset

Let us, as still a-little agile creatures, breech
The very things, conventions, by which we're
Held down. Let us, unlike, admit that, though
We shouldn't, we do like each other. You stayed
Young. I've gotten old. You're like a socket,
Set to shock me. Each time that we meet,
I'm jolted. What do I provide to you,
The sober circling toward senescence, blankets,
Groaning, groping for remote controls,
To troll for movies made to make those
Oatmeal eaters, those like me, content to
Hold the field to finish empty lives? Death
May pay a visit soon, but, as he fishes for his
Glasses, also older, now unable to make out
The numbers of my address, written in his
Book, you have beaten him to here, and I,
A-rattle at what those of faith would call your
Randy charms, arise. You've gotten me to rise,
Which is a miracle of sorts. Oh, Mary, never
Go back home. There's darkness everywhere
I look, except when I am focused on your
Eyes, and you are holding me. Though not
So agile as I was, convention doesn't seem
To quite confine the way it always did.
I need your socket, Mary, now. Without
Your charge, the one who's coming will
Arrive, and I will be undone.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 13 times
Written on 2011-02-08 at 13:04

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