Bummed

I'm out of sorts, and on a bench, along
A thoroughfare, upon which limousines
And taxis flow. The money movers enter
Town. Their fumes are mine, the frigid
Air, the swinging blade of liberation;
Good or ill, I'm here because I have no
Other place to go. In another hour, as
This dismal dawn matures into a gloomy
Morning, phones will ring, and others'
Money will be moved, the movers
Taking slices for themselves, and, thereby,
Staying rich. And I'll be staying here,
I guess, unmoved, among the pigeons
And useless ones on benches, out of sorts.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 19 times
Written on 2011-02-17 at 13:33

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text