One Makes Do

You may scoff, and rightly so, at what
Must pass for trysts for us. I do not
Warble at her window, do not lead her
By the hand along the banks of any
Brook, and we've not hours we can
Share, sprawled on a blanket on the
Grass. I find her in fluorescent light,
Between two rows of baby products
In a store. It's not yet dawn, and we
Have minutes, never hours, in which
We may meet and speak, and, though
You'll scoff, I guess you should,
These meetings, brief as they must be,
Contain the longing and the pleasures
Of more standard trysts.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 64 times
Written on 2015-01-24 at 23:26

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