Hamburg, Iowa

Kristin was my lover once, about a week,
As I recall. What I cannot recall is whether
She and I were caught up in that stuff which
Has the name of love, or if we were, as mare
And stallion, simply stuck together here,
A pair of not-yet-married people staring
Down the dusty streets of one decaying
Hamlet on the flood plain of the
Nishnabotna. “There's a band in
Percival tonight,” I said. “You want
To go?” She thought. I knew I'd have
To wait. There was no doubt she'd like
To go. What worried her was what
Those there would say if she arrived
With me. A minute passed. She said
She'd come. I came for her at six,
Cleaned up and combed, and we drove
Through the fields, in August. Corn was
Shoulder high. She turned, halfway to
Percival, and asked me if I'd ever
Wished that I could go to bed with her.
I said, “Well, yeah; of course I have,”
And we wound up in someone's field.
We missed the show, a mare and stallion,
At it, in my mother's car, and, after days
In single digits, holding hands and watching
Movies, we decided, without drama, that
We didn't love each other, but this is a tiny
Town. We've never really been apart.
I see her twice a month or so, when I've
Been paid and I feel rich enough to
Come to her cafe. I order coffee at the
Counter, which she serves. She'll stop
To talk if there aren't many people there.
The decades pass, and little changes.
We go home to others, not the lovers
We were for a week. We're friends,
Corralled, two aging horses, done with breeding,
Looking through the planks at dusty streets.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 26 times
Written on 2013-09-10 at 18:32

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