The Trip He Waited to Take

He's on a bus in Florence with his wife.
She says that everything's beautiful.
So it is, he must admit, but unaffecting,
Nonetheless. The world, even here,
Is gray, and every hour only is a
Sentence his is forced to serve,
Succeeded by another and another
Until he can sleep. The city's fine.
The food is nice. Their room is bright
And clean and warm, and just beyond
The bus's window, lovely, dark-haired
Women walk.  And would he like to
Bring one to that room, if he was here
Alone?  To what?  To listen to her
Talk?  To take her into bed to find
That even sex with younger women
Isn't what it used to be, and then
Be stuck pretending that he is
The man he must have been, oh,
Thirty, forty years ago, the one
Who would have wandered Florence,
So excited, on his feet, instead of
Passing through it on a bus?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 11 times
Written on 2011-06-10 at 12:05

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text