Back in Lake Hills

Here, of course; where else would I be
So at home, alone and dead inside?
The drizzle comes and goes. I've
Stopped to smoke a cigarette, and
Tumbled backward forty years
To be again that awkward man
On foot in his own neighborhood,
A suburb growing shabby, oddly
Now the realm of immigrants,
Who've learned from natives
That the well-adjusted always
Drive. I sit and feel my pants
Get wet. I gaze at all I came
To curse, the moss, the drooping,
Dripping leaves, the ashen sky
And evergreens. I think about
The one I love. I'm glad she's
Far away. A car stops in a parking
Space. A man and woman soon
Emerge. They're young, the kids
Of Indians, I'd guess, though
They're Americans. They chatter,
And they're holding hands as
They approach the bench across
The gravel path from mine.
They sit. I see that they're in love.
He tells her what he plans to do.
She tells him where she'd like to go.
Each must know about the other.
My love wants no part of that.
She'd rather not know who I am.
She won't reveal herself to me.
She seems to want me near,
But, if that's so, I don't know why.
I drop my cigarette and rise,
And wish these better lovers well
In silence, and I walk away.
My pants are wet and I am
Dead inside.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 62 times
Written on 2015-08-31 at 00:04

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