From One of Those Black, Plastic-Covered Chairs

In this sort of sterile place,
An airport lounge at 2:00 am,
The mind bends back upon
Itself. It drops its list of looming
Chores, and asks itself, “how
Have I, like a feather, drifted
Downward here? What strand
Of destiny is this, to find
Myself an aged organ, agent
Of this aged man, who's never
Gotten anywhere? Why weren't
There other destinies, the routes
Most often called success: an
Office job with tie and suit
And fulsome paycheck, well-
Known name, and satisfaction,
As opposed to being here and
Doing this, at rest inside a sterile
Place, believing all is lost?”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 69 times
Written on 2015-01-15 at 14:27

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