Over

I am hungry, dear. I have to leave.
I saw you months ago, and thought
You needed food. I fed you love,
But you have given none to me. I don't
Know if you even tried. Your silence
Stands, stern maitre d, before the
Swinging kitchen doors, and every
Plate which issues from it shows
Up clean when brought to me.
I cannot feed and not be fed.
I'll die. My love already has,
So should your silent servant
Raise his eyes and bring his
Bill to me. I'll tell him I've
Already paid, and, hungry,
I will leave.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 53 times
Written on 2015-05-02 at 02:22

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