Potato Eaters

"Is there anything timeless to this?," I wonder
As I bring a bouquet that I've found inside
A discount store, marked down, due to age,
I guess, to Mrs. Crabtree's door. The door
Is not as I would have it. It's not wood.
It's metal, and it's stark. It has no decorations.
Mrs. Crabtree's inside somewhere, in a place
I've never seen. We work together in a
Warehouse, filling orders, speaking at a
Table when we go on break. I've learned
That she's a widow. She has learned
That I've become divorced, and neither
Of us truly knows, but both of us can
Sense the gnawing loneliness within
The other's life, and both of us, I think,
Have sensed that we'd be better off
If I would come to her, a bouquet of
Imperfect flowers vibrating a little
In their purchaser's ungainly hands.
A careworn suitor at a door not
Altogether optimistic that he'll charm
The woman, likewise careworn, who's
Behind that door, wonders whether
There is something timeless to his
Effort, desperate as it is.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 90 times
Written on 2017-06-09 at 02:36

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