"That's the Third Time Ed's Come Over This Week"

It's not tragedy. I'll grant you that.
It's not, in fact, unusual, this hopeless
Lust which fogs my head. The girl
Lounges, as they all seem trained
To do by someone, who?, and
Slays me with a languor so
Extravagant: she does her nails;
She gazes mutely at TV, and turns
From time to time as if she isn't
Satisfied with...what? Whatever
Could be wrong? I wouldn't know.
Her father's in the other room. Her
Mother's somewhere, doing something
Noble, as she's wont to do, and I am
Aged, crippled, aching, wanting for
No other reason than to prove a final
Time that there's a womb, a fertile
Womb, which wants what little I'd
Provide to push a dismal process
Forward. Such is not to be, I learn.
I lust, as I am doomed to do. I seek
A shot between the sheets, uncertain
That the fruits of those already seeded
Came from me, while all she wants
She has already: confirmation that,
At least, one horny bastard wishes he
Could make her his (and claim her womb).



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 53 times
Written on 2014-08-14 at 02:30

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