One Story, Told Twice

She isn't here. I wish she was.
I start to dream of being with her
Every day, but realize that that
Would not go well for us. I see me
With her and her friends, who'd find
Me old and also odd. I see us
With her parents, who'd, no doubt,
Think I was wrong for her. I see
Us with my wife: not good, and
With my children, most of whom
Are older than she. They would
Be polite, I'm sure, but unimpressed.
I see me taking her to meet my old
Best friend, and I am certain neither
Of them would be pleased, which
Means that, even if we could be
Openly together, we'd be wise to
Often keep apart. My daydream's
Made me sad, but I still wish
That she was here.


Her mother's said she's always been obsessed
With putting things in place, each type of
Crayon, yarn or button kept apart from all
The rest. That seems to be how she'd have me.
She wants me, yes, but just at work. I cannot
Be allowed to touch the other segments of her
Life. I've had to learn to be her bauble, boxed,
Brought out from time to time. I see her eyes
Dance when she does, and, being not so neat
Myself, I want to jump from my enclosure,
Grow and leave my traces in the boxes she
Keeps next to mine. I want her to want more
Of me, but I'll accept my segregation if that's
All that I can have, as I, too, am obsessed.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 66 times
Written on 2015-09-14 at 00:26

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