Lothario Glances at His Watch

She might have liked what I was, if she'd come
To me, as a ghost, when she was gone: a man
Whose mind was not confused, an agent, as
The texts would say, who steered his life with
Pantomime confidence, bedding the babes the
Bars produced, callous, imperious, sending the
Flowers, never forgetting the morning call.
Shaving, “babe, you know you were wonderful,”
Driving to work without regrets, hardly the
Sensitive soul I become when she's back, and
After what I am not: the keeper of flames, the
Shoulder to wet. There's no poke in the darkness,
No kiss on the porch. There is nothing but
Sympathy, nothing but groping for times and
Places for us to grope, but she keeps me apart
From her, just out of reach, almost as if she's
A ghost.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 22 times
Written on 2011-04-12 at 12:05

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