Last SaturdayI relieved myself in her garden. I laughed.
I was drunk. I'd been evil, as drunks like
To be. She had wronged me in some way.
I wasn't sure how. She had gone. She had
Told me I ought to stop drinking. I said,
“Go to hell.” Maybe that's why she left.
Maybe that's why a long night alone,
Drinking pale ales and stouts and some
Whiskeys brought me to her garden,
To pee and to chortle. “Fuck you,”
I'd have said, if she'd been home, she
Wasn't, if she still had feelings for me,
But she didn't. Okay. I went home,
Unsteadily, yes, but I got to my door,
And I went in. I fell on my bed and I
Slept. In the morning, I woke up.
I should have felt guilty, but, actually,
I laughed again. Even sober, the evil
I'd done made me happy. She hadn't
Treated me badly, but, still, I was glad
That I'd peed on her plants.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2020-03-27 at 01:55
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