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By Owen Lucas

I am going up country
And I will not come home:

Enfin, je me suis dégagée
De tous vos bêtises.

You will find a brand new bulb
In the lamp at your desk.

The old one, that blinked
Through all the nights when

You were working, is dull
And grey and in the drawer

With all the other duds
You kept without further need.

There is, I suppose,
No expedient to draw you out

Of such malign habits;
If there were, I think I should

At some point have found it.
Do not punish you and roar

And crash around in drink.
In such a state you will only

Cry and make a foolish mess
Of your clothes, and I will

Be no nursemaid to you now.
Consider this our last contact.


Owen Lucas is a British writer living in Norwalk, Connecticut. His poetry, fiction and translations have been published in more than thirty journals in the US, Britain and Canada. His recent work can be found in Tirage MonthlyTribe and Free State Review. For more: owenlucaspoems.com.