Saint CharlotteI don't understand you, Charlotte. All the things
That humans seem to do you don't. You do not
Want your pound of flesh or monetary compensation.
You don't need to be admired or to hog the stage
Or turn each conversation toward yourself.
You smile at me as if you're glad I've come.
You let me whine and moan, then tell me things
Won't stay so bad. You feed me, and, when we
Are done, you send me off as if you're truly sorry
That I'm going home. Are you human, Charlotte?
I'm not certain that you are.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 23 times
Written on 2020-08-01 at 22:35
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