For Those on Break

There's a poem to be fashioned from this emptiness,
I tell myself, as I stand outside in a patch of sunlight,
Smoking with the guys. It's nearly three. It doesn't
Matter. Work will end, and we'll go home to work
And be dissatisfied with all the things we settled for:
The wretched mates and sagging gutters, cars and
Kids always in need of services we can't afford.
The years run past, but we don't notice. Each one
Has its sunny days, its shifts, and guys with whom
To smoke, and, hidden somewhere on its edges,
Felt but never wholly seen, the void that is the
Emptiness from which the poem comes.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 69 times
Written on 2015-05-19 at 00:20

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