Long Weekend

Friday

What sort of alchemy is this, what sort
Of trick? What's wrong with me?
She's here at last, the one I love,
Across a table, never any prettier.
She has my hand, and we have kissed.
We'll kiss again, and, after we have
Finished dinner, who knows? I may
Bring her home. It's clear she's happy
Here with me, and I have had my dreams
Fulfilled, so, why the sadness? Why
Not joy? I fear that this is all there is.
We may not be this way again. She
Cannot long escape her mother. I
Cannot escape my wife. The candles
On the table gutter. Clocks are ticking.
Soon enough, this night will be one
I remember, gone, and not to be retrieved,
But it is here. Why not enjoy it? What
Is wrong with me?


Saturday

It's gotten dark. That doesn't bother
Me. My body aches. I'll be okay.
I'm laying in my bed. It's late. My
Eyes are closed, but I'm not sleeping.
I am seeing her again, and hearing
What she had to say, and telling her,
As I did then, that she is all I care
About, and, once more, beaming,
She has lurched, and her arms have
Encircled me. These took place
When it was light, before she started
Toward her home, before she
Promised she'd be back, and, since
She did, though it's now dark, that
Doesn't bother me.


Sunday

Though bright, it is a winter sun,
Its arc still far off, to the south.
It shines on hills of naked trees,
And trucks, no cars, as I am
Driving from one household to
The next, a single sordid thought
In mind: if she said we should
Start a third, I'd far outshine
This sun.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 60 times
Written on 2015-01-19 at 20:34

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