W.H. Auden

W.H. Auden walks through the yard

In an ill-fitting badly kept suit,

Like a rustic brown wicker basket

With aging and withered fruit.

His face like an old weathered road map,

His jowls like a crinkled hall rug,

His nicotine fingers varnish stained,

His heart in the grip of a drug.

Eros bites his tarnished emotions

He searches his journals for love

He prays for his mother in heaven

And succumbs to the Lord God above.

 

Copyright © 2017 Grant Fenton – All Rights Reserved

 

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