An Actress I Knew

She slept here once, on this foul couch.
Should I make something out of that?
Too drunk to make it home, she said;
I don't believe she drank again, and, now,
I hear she's had her baby. Pictures show
A little boy. The actress who lit up the
Night, the playful temptress, tempting
Me, she knew I loved her, took me with
Her to the bars to meet her friends, then
Turned her back and traveled home
To some small town among the endless
Empty hills, far west of here, to do her duty,
I suppose, to marry and to settle down,
To be what neither I nor any of the
Others, city-born and showy-gay,
Would understand: the grown-up
Version of the girl who'd trod the
Fields in muddy boots, and won
Awards for pies and horses, plain
And simple, playing cards, when dinner's
Done, with mom and dad. She's never
Said that I should visit, knowing I'd be
Out of place, a relic of an ended life, so
Why must I remember her, my palm
Upon this couch?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 21 times
Written on 2013-01-11 at 21:43

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