ROOMATISM

When all the plummy plump

Is bruised to lumpy pith

Amid a local and general sag,

And all the grand and fervid passions

Are cold ashes in the grate,

And there it is, the lone fucking chop

The twenty fucking peas,

And the chunks of fucking carrot

On the clunky fucking plate,

And all the books swim

In a dark swash of print,

And the songs fade to a whisper

On the drums of well thatched ears,

The lips may yet move

With an odd line here or there

Of that reserved anarcho-jester,

The poem, whose rhythms, 

Neurisms and truisms

Suggest all of the allusive all

That lies just beyond touch,

Beyond the fog and cloud and shadow,

Beyond the room and rheumatism.