Slain with Little Effort

A shallow man will die from superficial
Wounds. I'm clearly proof of that.
You've seen her face. She shows up here
At half past six on Thursdays, Fridays,
Saturdays, and glows, almost. I feel
The heat her face and form exude, even
Cowered in this corner. Who knows what's
Inside of her? I don't. I didn't try to learn
Before I'd drunk too much and risen,
Pulled toward her, compelled, I think,
And asked if she would follow me back
To my table in the gloom. Staring at me
As if I was something she'd brush from
Her blouse, she curtly uttered, “No,”
And, though I'm still upright and breathing,
I am certain I've been killed.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 34 times
Written on 2021-09-28 at 14:18

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