One Spring in Tyler

I dreamt of such evenings as this, the lapidary
Light, the lovely Mrs. Gould, whose husband
Isn't here, the excess bourbons, redolent of Texas,
If what I have heard is true, and, surely, what
I've heard, in hallways, as I stagger into
Bathrooms, and to faucets which, I hope,
Will heave me from a bed, a grave, an
Altogether too inviting death by ethanol,
Is that these spirits are the very soul of
What they call the south. A cross is burning
On the square. The ones with whom I
Joke and jostle ready cells and surly dogs.
A nigger isn't welcome here, but I, so pale
As Paris plaster, plastered, am, and I am,
In my starkly drunken, stupid, way,
Approaching my love, Mrs. Gould, who
Turns. I fall. I fell a couple months ago, and
Mrs. Gould, in black and gold, is saying,
To the doyens and the deputies, she isn't
Sure why I have come, but she is lying,
And, if I can find, and, somehow, keep
My head, she'll be beside me, naked,
In my bed when all the others are in
Theirs, their hands at work creating
Nooses, even as their eyes are closed,
And they remain asleep.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 22 times
Written on 2011-03-01 at 13:05

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