I wrote this poem five minutes ago. It has not appeared in any publications or web sites, except this one, and it has not been translated into any other languages.
My morning meal al fresco. I dine like
A king, of sorts, on chicken from the store,
Fried just last night, and pilaf that I made
Myself, and I eat looking out at cornfields.
Raptors corkscrew through the air. The clouds
Are few and friendly-fluffy. Someone said
That, later on, the air will warm more than
I'd like, and also thicken, but, for now,
I feed in comfort, regal, almost, on my deck,
And wish for nothing more, except perhaps,
For an espresso, and some time with you.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 76 times
Written on 2021-06-02 at 18:14
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Grandee
Call me grandee, Jessica, as I consumeMy morning meal al fresco. I dine like
A king, of sorts, on chicken from the store,
Fried just last night, and pilaf that I made
Myself, and I eat looking out at cornfields.
Raptors corkscrew through the air. The clouds
Are few and friendly-fluffy. Someone said
That, later on, the air will warm more than
I'd like, and also thicken, but, for now,
I feed in comfort, regal, almost, on my deck,
And wish for nothing more, except perhaps,
For an espresso, and some time with you.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 76 times
Written on 2021-06-02 at 18:14
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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