Friends

I hear my words descend from quiet babble
Into incoherence just before we have to go.
Another try, another miss; we drive away
In separate cars to separate homes and
Separate beds, in one of which, an hour
Hence, a woman will be sleeping, having
Spent an evening with a friend, and, in
The other, fevered grief. I couldn't get my
Point across, and, now, not sleeping, cursing
At a balky clock and endless night, I plan how
I will babble when I see her Sunday after
Church. Another try, and, probably, a miss.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 27 times
Written on 2011-03-14 at 20:10

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