I will sit out there and talk about houses, taxes and land values and which trains are best to catch in the morning commute: all that has sifted down from the great froth of love and ideals. The chair where I have sat listening is worn round, my throat prepared by a small niche from which that kind of talk, like a needle placed to it, begins to flow, like mucus. But here alone, refusing for at least one hour to be needled, I have this satisfaction, this healing plaster of a poem. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...I'VE NOTHING TO OFFER by DAVID IGNATOW BONNYBELL: THE GRAY SPHEX by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A HYMN OF HATE by DOROTHY PARKER |