Sunday

These flaccid hours could, with effort,
Come to have significance, but I
Would rather they did not. I have
Enough to keep my mind aflutter
Through this torpid day: a trip
To visit an old friend, a wife who
Sneers, “The house is dirty,”
Listless, useless, full-grown
Children, milling at the kitchen
Counter, eating, never cleaning
Up, and, soon, the chance to meet
Again the one I've missed these
Past two weeks, to see if she still
Wants me with her, if she has
Concluded (as I haven't) what we
Ought to be. Friends? We are,
But something more. Lovers?
Could that ever be? I ponder
Through these flaccid hours,
Though I'd rather not.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 64 times
Written on 2015-01-11 at 17:11

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