Not until
once again home—derelict,
naked, sipping and staring-
down another late
afternoon in his
usual haunt—an empty kitchen;
does the poet feel the gnawing
responsibility engulf him—to examine
more precisely
ideas of the morning—a sun
he'd like
to have maybe seen—piercing
through cold clouds—so round
rubicund, and kindly smiling,
always alone,
but never for so much
as one moment
apprehended
as being
lonely—for swollen out
less
than he—with sacred assam ginger tea
and more, presumably,
by the piquant
heat—of earthly
sympathy.
