Excuse Me

You know the metaphor, the moth
To flame, and also know, or should,
That you're a blank to me, a void
Which fantasy fills in, a form alone
Which summons something beastly,
Not the sort of man a woman might
Be seeking here, among the china
Plates, the tinkling glasses, linen
Napkins and exotic foods. No one
Nearby seems so primeval. Each
Is elegantly dressed, and banters
Blandly between bites. They sit.
I rush up, drawn and drawn (and,
Apt, I fear, to find I'm quartered),
Groping, first, for winning words
To mask the lust which has my
Hands expectant of a second
Grope. Your face is blank. You're
Still a void, and I, embarrassed,
Singed, must try to turn and flee
Your flame.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 25 times
Written on 2013-08-05 at 13:01

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