Sorry, JohnMy son called, lurching me back to the present
From Milton's exquisite, ethereal babbling;
Paradise lost twice, modernity beckoning.
He's been with someone who may have the virus,
The dread scarlet letter. He dares not leave home
Until some errant knight jams a lance up his nose
And proclaims him unsullied, which may take some
Time. Long lines await those who wish to go
Jousting as hospitals fill with the many who fall.
He receives what he'd wanted from me, tepid
Sympathy, hangs up and rides off to add to
The throng. I pick up Milton, release him
In favor of chicken breasts, breading, a vat
Of hot oil. Dinner's assumed more importance
Than reading. Paradise, thus, remains lost.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 42 times
Written on 2022-01-06 at 22:55
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