My friend told stories I could not believe
of sport among the professoriat,
and toss me clue books if I seem naïve,
dull, spinsterish, inflexible, old hat,
but I’d always assumed that, having taught
of constancy, of compasses that roam
the wide world yet still know true north, men brought
at least a smattering of metal home.
No chance: the only loud sigh-tempests here
were those she could not muffle as she pried
fat gobs of wax from his infected ear;
the only tear-floods anybody cried
were hers, for all that wasted paraffin
lighting up words that never quite sank in.
from Silver RosesFind it in the library
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