it’s lonely, i’ll tell it,
it’s lonely there & you’re too sore
to think.
II
i’ll describe the crooked lamp
shade later, the tears
of paper, cracks, chipped
dinner plates, years of
slog for,
this?
& that on good days
you figure it doesn’t
much matter
in the long run;
the black stain
where a picture
hung, its gilded
frame long
gone now bones
crushed.