Converse

So loud and garrulous as beer he sups
Torrential flow from mouth a careless spill
So spurious the wisdom found in cups
The swaying phrase of man exuding swill
I wear my tolerance politely thin
And every time his rub is not my way
A pouring out but nothing’s going in
He talks until there’s nothing I can say
The party has a life but soul is dead
My smile has fallen slowly to the floor
Unnoticed like the hanging of my head
So generous he wants to tell me more
I think I’ve had as much as I can take
Tomorrow we will both have heads that ache

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Author: thepoetautist

A Gay poet of fifty odd years who is currently living in Cambodia.

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