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