A Ticket Out
I feel myself descending into hell
By several means at once. I'm old.
The solitude I knew, the tree farm
And the deep ravine, the next-door
Pasture, all have gone, replaced
By parvenus and tasteless houses.
My son's baby cries, She's spoiled,
Buzzing awfully, like a drone, when
She's not held by Momma. I can't
Write when there's such noise, and I
Can't even fake some half-assed
Arhat's piece of peace of mind.
I mutter as I search for solace,
Something no one in these dreary
Suburbs can expect to find.
The escalators draw me downward.
Hell is half a floor away, but, in my
Favor, I've an out, a double shot
Of Islay scotch, a taste of peat,
A surer shortcut to the arhat's
Claim of calm. Drain the glass,
I will, and, subsequently, sidestep
Hell for sleep.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 32 times
Written on 2022-06-14 at 12:17
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)