Old Shoes

Jen, this town is what we are, and we are it.
We've lived here all our lives. I know what
You're about. I have since we were little kids,
And, now that Edgar and Arlene are off in
Heaven, and we're on our own, I offer this
To you: my hand. I need someone at home,
And you, I think, are who would do, the steady
Presence, almost like an almanac of what
It is to be what I have come to be: a doughy
Guy, inside a tractor, one who goes to church,
A day a week, and lives a lonely life. I
Wouldn't say that I am desperate. Still,
As Ted announces that we'd better order,
Final call, I dread the drive to where I
Live, and think that you, who seems,
Tonight, to be the girl I had always,
Okay, only sometimes, been convinced
Would be the one I loved, would come
Into my frigid room, and warm me,
And relieve me of my sorrow and this
Sense of doom. I know you, Jen, what
You can do. Would you do it with me?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 17 times
Written on 2011-02-26 at 12:45

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