It’s tension I feel by the wharves
where we shared the cramped eaves
with those left of the spaewives
moaning about fortunes and thieves.
The room is quiet, just to ourselves,
‘cept when we listen to that LP, Charles Ives.
Mostly empty bookshelves: only stale loaves
and shoes none will repair. Not even elves.
Back when we lived in the time of the haves
we had leisure enough to think of wives
or talk of the fate of African aardwolves.
But all that’s left are the bone knives.
And out among encroaching, dried leaves
upon no turves: an echoing quickness of hooves.