A Dash of Bitters

Of all the women, who I know,
None mentions Michelangelo,
Or global warming, even elves.
These women talk about themselves,
And they, it seems, believe that I
Am rapt, though audibly I sigh,
As they go on about their pains,
Their disappointments. There remains
No time to learn how I have been.
Though they may wonder, now and then,
Or they may not. One cannot say.
They tell their tales of woe to me,
And quickly move away.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 64 times
Written on 2015-06-26 at 01:44

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