Beggary
I was young and I was raw, and full of desperate abandon.
I rushed at it, love that is, as if I wanted to be hurt and crushed.
I thought it would be worth it, for just that one full look, that one sweet thrill.
I’d take the pain, I’d take the kicks, for that one brief taste of bliss.
I waited round the corner, kicking the earth and cursing myself.
I was trapped in a cliché, and worse, I didn’t want escape.
I gritted my teeth and forced down the seething fears and doubts.
I’d set myself to waiting this out, and to hell with all the rest.
I felt nothing and then . . . everything, a tumult of reactions.
I knew fear, excitement, confusion, regret, self-loathing; the whole shebang.
I could run, vanish, turn my back on it all, and salvage what self-respect I could.
I’d starting walking and talking already though.
I was pathetic and naïve, that’s clear enough now.
I was a stray begging for scraps, devoid of all dignity.
I would have whimpered at any disapproval, and yipped at any affection.
I’d not think twice about rolling over, should that bring a smile to her face.
I thought nothing of the shame, but only of the taste of it all.
I was verging on contact with another world.
I desperately wanted to cross over, to take that one small step.
I’d never have the guts though, too much a cowardly cur to try.
I hung on her every word and look, and drank in her presence like a tonic.
I waited and watched for a single word or look to decide it all.
I suffered and agonized over her petty smiles and flippant goodbyes.
I’d try to maintain her euphoric aura as misery tried to crush me walking home.
I tried to connect a thousand dots together, shaping how we should be together.
I went over a thousand situations in my head, ones wherein we might find common ground.
I planned and planned how to proceed next time, thinking optimism would birth success.
I’d do all these things, and fall back into groveling ways if she next looked twice at me.
I was a good dog, a funny dog, and I could do lots of tricks.
I would come when she said “Come.” I would heel when she said “Heel.”
I would fetch, roll over, play dead and do for scraps what other boys would do for a whole dish.
I’d do it all for her, for the chance of a touch, and be left lost and forlorn and longing every time.
Cameron Scott Irvin
I was young and I was raw, and full of desperate abandon.
I rushed at it, love that is, as if I wanted to be hurt and crushed.
I thought it would be worth it, for just that one full look, that one sweet thrill.
I’d take the pain, I’d take the kicks, for that one brief taste of bliss.
I waited round the corner, kicking the earth and cursing myself.
I was trapped in a cliché, and worse, I didn’t want escape.
I gritted my teeth and forced down the seething fears and doubts.
I’d set myself to waiting this out, and to hell with all the rest.
I felt nothing and then . . . everything, a tumult of reactions.
I knew fear, excitement, confusion, regret, self-loathing; the whole shebang.
I could run, vanish, turn my back on it all, and salvage what self-respect I could.
I’d starting walking and talking already though.
I was pathetic and naïve, that’s clear enough now.
I was a stray begging for scraps, devoid of all dignity.
I would have whimpered at any disapproval, and yipped at any affection.
I’d not think twice about rolling over, should that bring a smile to her face.
I thought nothing of the shame, but only of the taste of it all.
I was verging on contact with another world.
I desperately wanted to cross over, to take that one small step.
I’d never have the guts though, too much a cowardly cur to try.
I hung on her every word and look, and drank in her presence like a tonic.
I waited and watched for a single word or look to decide it all.
I suffered and agonized over her petty smiles and flippant goodbyes.
I’d try to maintain her euphoric aura as misery tried to crush me walking home.
I tried to connect a thousand dots together, shaping how we should be together.
I went over a thousand situations in my head, ones wherein we might find common ground.
I planned and planned how to proceed next time, thinking optimism would birth success.
I’d do all these things, and fall back into groveling ways if she next looked twice at me.
I was a good dog, a funny dog, and I could do lots of tricks.
I would come when she said “Come.” I would heel when she said “Heel.”
I would fetch, roll over, play dead and do for scraps what other boys would do for a whole dish.
I’d do it all for her, for the chance of a touch, and be left lost and forlorn and longing every time.
Cameron Scott Irvin