A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion), Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight; Plasters astray in unnatural looking tinware; Scissors and lint and apothecary's jars. Here, on a bench a skeleton could writhe from, Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted: Wait till me heart is lead upon my stomach, While at their ease two dressers do their chores. One has a probe -- it feels to me a crowbar. A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone. A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers. Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame. |