Approaching Sainthood (From Far, Far Away)

At some point, maybe Anna's soothing hands
Will make a saint of me, and I won't want to
Wring the neck of that young oaf who wrecked
The car I'd taken in to be repaired, and I won't
Mutter darkly in my corner of the corner bar
That it contains a greater share of this town's
Crackers than the grocery store, and I won't
Howl in anguish when I read the self-indulgent
Shit the better journals label verse. No, I'll
Be beatific. Everything will be all right with
Me, and, on this table, in this room, as Anna's
Hands untie the many knots I've put along
My back, I feel as if I'm moving toward that
Point, but haven't reached it yet.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2011-03-09 at 23:13

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