Friday Night

A clock within me ticks,
Though I confess I have
No place to go. I'm with
The boys for wings and beers.
The conversation's gotten
Dull. There's just so much to
Grouse about at work. Each
Gripe's been heard before,
Each curse and slur and bitter
Joke. The politics are from
The right, reflections, really,
Recitations, of the orthodoxy
Broadcast from our radios,
And, thus, somehow, our
Discontent is shifted from
Our shitty jobs to "bureaucrats
In Washington," another topic
Heard before, and guys with
Wives say nothing of them.
Guys without remain alone,
While I, tormented by the
Clock, imagine someone
Waiting for me, though she
Doesn't. I've nowhere to go.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 55 times
Written on 2014-11-19 at 23:18

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