The longing's only transitory.  That's been made
Plain to me twice in just the last two days.
As I was cleaning out a closet, I pulled an old
Manuscript I'd printed from a dusty box.  I think
It's one of only two.  I don't print much.  There
Is no point, as publishers aren't clamoring for
Verse by someone uncredentialed.  (I won't say
That they don't clamor for all verse which goes
Unread, as even paltry runs of books
Of poems sit, sealed up, in cartons,
Spurned by nearly everyone.)  The
Manuscript I'd come across contained
More than one hundred pages, and on
All were poems I had written to,
And for, a girl.  Oh, how I had longed
For her, but that was many years ago.
At this point, she is not a girl.  She is
In her thirties, maybe married, maybe
Raising kids.  I have no idea where
She lives, and no desire to find out.
I longed for her most tragically,
But I no longer do.  Likewise, this
Afternoon, I found a splendid car,
A fine old Chrysler, pictured on
An auction site.  I longed for it,
And placed some bids, but, in the end,
Somebody else appeared to want it
More than I, and got it.  I was briefly
Sad, but now I care no more for it
Than I do for that grown-up girl.
Day is done.  A poem's done.
I long for alcohol.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2022-11-18 at 00:37

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
A splendid analysis of that peculiar human trait called 'longing' - though I wonder if it comes under the mother group entitled 'nostalgia'?

I call it peculiar because I think it is rather indefinable as it is something of the mind: Physically, had you discovered she had the most disgusting breath or worse, the longing might have disappeared quite rapidly. Or the old Chrysler hidden chassis rust??? So the consolation I am offering is you were saved from letting your heart rule your head. But that's me being verbose and a bit negative, even though I thoroughly enjoyed your poem.

Blessings, Allen