Trifles

These coeds from Kearney seem not to want to disdain me
The way that you do, my love. Maybe disdain has to grow,
Like a child, but here, out of reach of your sense of
Propriety, here in hot rooms in which the strictures
Made plain by parents in faraway towns have been shed,
I am someone intriguing, exotic, older and courtly,
And worth bringing home for the night. These sweet things
Suffer less of your darkness. There isn't much to them,
To tell you the truth, but they're lovely to look at, and they
Treat me well. I don't feel as if I am disdained.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 91 times
Written on 2017-08-23 at 12:35

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