One Morning

I watched her bathe and dress.
She didn't mind. We'd been together
Long enough for her to know
That I, like almost everyone who'd
Seen her since she was a teen,
Was captivated by her form,
The pedestal, and prison, too,
To which she, somehow, unlike
Others, couldn't wholly be confined.
She smiled. “Are you seeing me,
Or just a vessel to be filled?”
Caught, but not, I placed my
Finger to her temple as I said,
“I'm well aware of what's within,
And rank the substance with
Its shape. I mean to honor both
And call myself a lucky man.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 52 times
Written on 2014-10-26 at 13:28

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