Weekend Writing Spree

So, Owen, why? Why do you write so much?

“So, Owen, why? Why do you write so much?
These little weekend pieces each appear
For such an evanescent span of time —
One barely registers; the next one’s here.”

I told her, “I’ve a friend about my age
Who with a younger colleague got obsessed:
Though each were married, they worked many hours
Alone. He would imagine her undressed –

Him forty-nine her twenty-nine, I think.
But then, she and her husband had a fight.
And when she came to work, she was upset:
They had to work then late into the night…

She slept with him, this man her father’s age.
And him? He thought that he’d found love at last;
He told his wife he wanted a divorce,
Their life of doldrums, now, was in the past —

Except, this younger girl – she then went back
And was to her young husband reconciled;
My friend, the gray-haired fool, now had no home,
And also was disowned by their grown child.”

She looked at me, quite puzzled by this tale.
I told her every word of it was true.
She said, “I’m sure, but why did you choose now
To tell me? Please, I haven’t got a clue…”

I looked at her and said, “With men my age,
There is no lunacy they will eschew
To just feel, once again, they are alive;
There’s little they won’t say, or try to do —

So writing too much is my lunacy.
I chase down every ghost, I whine, I prate:
But though I feel I’m barely still a man,
‘At least’, I think,
‘I can some thing create’.”

We sat there in the silence for awhile.
When suddenly she asked, “So, now, tell me:
Have you imagined me without my clothes?”
I said,
“I’ll write about it.
And see.”

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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