She made a pretty good trophy at first,
Dark-haired and beautiful, just out
Of college, but years began passing.
Her youth went away, and her hero,
Her savior, began to lose interest.
His work days grew longer. He didn't
Come home. She thought of divorcing,
But there was no chance. He would
Hide all he had. She'd be turned out
With nothing, and those were the grim
Facts she told me one evening when
We'd met to protest...I can't recall what.
As she talked and I listened, the two
Of us seated on parking lot curbs,
Sharing her pack of cigarettes,
I began falling. She'd remained
Beautiful, tragically now, with her
Crow's feet and sadness. We kissed
At her car, and, from then on, for
Months, we were almost inseparable.
He'd go to work. She would beg me
To come to help fill up their mansion,
To ride in her car as she went to do
Errands. When he learned about us,
He shouted and cursed her, only
Because someone had what was his.
She grew fearful he'd use me if they
Were divorced, so she packed up
Her car when he hadn't come home,
And she drove down to Georgia.
I never knew why. When I came
Home that evening, I saw that
She'd called. She said, “Sorry
To leave. I'm so going to miss
You.” My second-hand trophy
Was gone.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 36 times
Written on 2020-07-16 at 00:50

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bibek adhikari The PoetBay support member heart!
The story-like quality in your narrative poems amuse me. Quite visual and appealing --- and yes, with a tinge of sadness, as always.