Poem: Lovingly Degraded

I once heard someone say

to my friend

“I want to lovingly degrade you.”

And my friend replied,

calm and collected:

“I don’t know my own Father,

so that’s fine by me.”

And here I am again,

in Cambridge, wondering

which direction

promises this conversation,

or at least a cab,

a God,

a merciless mouth.

I walk.

It’s the potential I’m

in love with. The anticipation

of not knowing a soul,

or more importantly

a face.

What turns them on?

Attention (not affection) normally.

Is there a difference?

I certainly don’t care which.

But I don’t like being heartless.

I’m not good at it.

I quit.

I’m quite sure you’ll die 

a modern death,

although I’d like to see you

'happen'.

But you’re not as heavy as the books -

Or as happy.

Even with those heavy

black boots

In a calm procession of

Darling and Honey.

No matter how much money

they throw at us

I fear you’ll always be lovingly degraded.

And I’ll degrade myself.

I’ll be loving.

On behalf of you.

__________________________________

I keep starting new poems before I have time to finish previous ones. I'm literally drowning in half finished, terrible poetry. 

As a rule, I normally post one poem for every ten I write, but in this case, this is the only one I've finished, so I didn't have a lot of choice.

Deal with it.