The Handsome Man

I’ve really tried to spread myself around
Generously, as widely as I could
And, mostly, women have not understood.
I say, I never wanted to be crowned.
They know the crowd well, by the humming sound
Their rivals make, pursuing me — no good
Can come of wandering the neighbourhood
In search of love, but on they come, unbound.

I certainly appreciate their candour,
But all they ever get is what you see:
I love them, and they come expectantly —
One at a time, please. I won’t grin and pander,
And claiming that I will is simple slander.
If women like my looks, they may join me.

Saturday Morning

At ten o’clock I got up from my bed
And made myself another cup of tea.
My leg, wrapped up loosely, still hurting me,
Still healing slowly, still ugly and red,
Reminds me that I’m better off not dead.
I worry that the month (or two, or three)
That this will take (it runs on endlessly)
Will leave me stuck here, no further ahead.

It’s two weeks since the doctors let me out
And sent me home. They called the operation
A big success, a medical sensation,
But I have shpilkes, soreness, itch, and gout.
I’m drinking hard and trying not to pout
(This very nice Gewürz here is Alsatian).

What Symbol Is That?

What is that symbol? What can all this mean?
Is life an appetite, or is it stark
And meaningless, with neither form nor spark?
Will we encounter spirits on the green,
Or will the unmoored sprites remain unseen?
I am myself unmoored, like an old shark
Who cannot rest. Could I cure ash-tree bark
And make a journal? I was once sixteen.

When I was fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one,
My heart was full of wonder, but no more.
Life was a meal — I was right on that score —
But meaningless as flowers in a gun.
I had love; riches, too; all done. All done.
What symbol is that? Who cares? Close the door.