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
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Written on 2022-11-18 at 00:37
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