When the Guests Have Gone
I stand, rather stupidly waving at tail lights
Whose owners, I realize, can't see me.
Bedlam now lapses to crypt-like tranquility.
I turn. I'm pleased. No one's drunk all
The coffee. No bright plastic objects
Are blocking my way. I hear no voices
Crying, admonishing, whining. I hear
Only poetry, undammed at last, rushing
Out, leaving marks on this page.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 45 times
Written on 2023-01-03 at 14:22
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