Lovely to be Home

With you, my dear, the thought of death
Transforms itself from terrorizing prospect
Into hopeful dream. You whine again
That all is wrong. This doesn't work That
Wasn't done. The house is filthy; on and on
You go. And, if something you wanted done
Is done, you are not pleased. It wasn't done
As you would do it. Anyway, there's so much
Left to do, there is no point in taking pride
In what has been accomplished. Do some
More, and do not stop. The children curse
Your name and leave, and I. who've suffered
More than they, may labor as you list your
Tasks, may face your sour face and say,
"Now, what is next for me to do?," while
Scanning clouds which rumble by for
Lightning bolts, and death.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 36 times
Written on 2012-07-07 at 02:17

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