Tangible

There's a bone on a plate which is
Next to the sink. It's what's left
Of a steak. The meat that is on it
Is red, and it's ragged, not cut
Neat, but chewed. There's a
Puddle of juice; in it, islands of
Grease, and a stemmed glass
Nearby with a dot of red wine
At its bottom, and lip marks in
Grease on its rim. There's nobody
Nearby, and no point to this
Poem, except to provide you
With hard, vivid images.
Poems should have them,
But most of them don't.
These, the bone and the
Plate and the grease-
Slimy glass, are some
Gifts that I'm giving
To you.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 90 times
Written on 2016-01-12 at 18:33

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