Into Overtime

I do not want an expensive watch. My time
Is far too precious to me to be tracked and
Hacked to slivers on the face of such a
Thing, and I'm not much for trappings of
A life I don't, and wouldn't, lead. You've
Seen me, love. You call me shabby. Once,
You said, "bohemian," but now, it seems,
You chafe at being tethered to a dowdy
Clod, who rushes home from work each
Day to pour a drink and agonize for words
To put on his computer. You, in clothes
And make-up close to dearer than all
That I own, insist I dress, so we can eat,
But I have spuds and sausage in the
Kitchen. What more would I need?
You fume. I see it in your face, and in
Your tapping, polished nails, and, though
I neither have a watch nor want one, I've
Become aware the hours are growing short
For you and me.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 14 times
Written on 2012-11-26 at 18:02

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