Against Complaint

Though the amaryllis sags and spills

so do those my wishes serve, all along the town.

And yes, the new moon, kinked there in night's patch,

tugs me so—but I can't reach to right the slant.

And though our cat pads past without a tail, some

with slinking tails peer one-eyed at the dawn, some

with eyes are clawless, some with sparking claws

contain no voice with which to sing

of foxes gassing in the lane.

                                                         Round-shouldered pals

parade smart shirts, while my broad back supports

a scrubby jumper, fawn or taupe.

                                                          The balding English

air their stubble while some headless hero sports

a feathered hat. I know a man whose thoroughbred

grazes in his porch for want of livery.

There are scholars of Kant who can't find Kent

on the map, and men of Kent who cannot

fathom Kant.

                   We who would polish off a feast have lain

late in our beds, our bellies groaning, throats on fire.

We who'd drain a vat of wine have drunk

our own blood for its sting.

                                                            Each of us in tatters flaunts

one treasured garment flapping in the wind.