Three Blocks from the Museum

My dreams, like sperm, take off toward
An egg we'll label ecstasy. You're on a
Stool, almost perfect, drunk, but, so what,
So am I. We do not dance. We're not the
Sorts, but Jasper Johns is on our minds,
And Albert Pinkham Ryder, too. I say,
"Say, baby, how'd you like to slither
Past the Delacroix that's down the
Street?" You say you would. And
Then? I shudder at the thought.
I have a bed too large for me.
I have a heart which aches for
Someone. Drink again. I'll help
You home, though "home" is apt
To feature me. See? There's the
Large and lonely bed, and here's
The man who wants you here.
I'll sleep across the room, if that
Is what you want. I'll be okay,
But, someday, even if you're sober,
I will ask you back. It's not as if
I really have a choice. I'm sperm
And you're the egg.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 22 times
Written on 2013-11-07 at 03:07

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text