Poor, Fussy Man

I stomp around the house the way I do
When everything is wrong, and, truly,
Everything is wrong. I can't find anything
To eat. The Internet is down again.
A hole's developed in my shirt, and every
Step I take is followed by a pain which
Stabs my hip, and you are far away
From here, coincidentally camped out
Upon the barren basalt bluffs of Vantage,
Where my spirit lives. I want to share
Your sleeping bag. I want to have this
Hip replaced tomorrow, and I'd like to eat,
But it would seem that I am destined
To keep lurching futilely, a thousand
Miles, maybe more, from my one love,
And where I'd like to live out the remainder
Of my life. I guess I'll go to bed.
Tomorrow doesn't promise much,
But maybe I'll control my temper then,
And walk, instead of stomping. Sure,
And maybe you'll show up, and I'll
Become convinced that nothing's wrong.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 56 times
Written on 2018-08-25 at 02:57

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email
dott Print text

josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
That was supposed to be certainty

josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
There’s always tomorrow. Sleep well, my friend in the certain that tomorrow will be today in the morning!