Late

When it's too late, the kitchen table takes on
The haphazard balance of a still life Chardin
Might have painted once. There are no
Gutted fish or bunnies, no stout, earthen
Pitchers. There are, in their places, empty
Cups from which I drank my rums and Cokes,
And condensation circles, ashtrays filled with
Crumpled butts, and overseeing all is not a
Painter, but a broken man, who pours himself
Another drink and lights another cigarette,
And only slightly pleased with how his
Spoor's assumed some symmetry, imagines
That his life would be less painful, were
It stilled.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 55 times
Written on 2015-07-08 at 00:52

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