A Little Poem About Almost Nothing
“Pleasant, isn't it?,” she says. She's beingFacetious. We fend off the rain, which
Angles at us, cruel, cold. Cars are hissing
Past and splashing water on our frozen
Feet. “Is all lost?,” I ask. We run. “No,”
She answers. She's sincere. “I see a bakery
Down the street. Let's go inside and get
Some coffee. We can warm ourselves
And eat.” “That would be pleasant,”
I say.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2011-10-17 at 14:33
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