Either because you're visiting
other, meritless versifiers
or because you’re trapped in a holding
pattern on your quills, I haven’t heard
much from you lately. The lamp’s been on,
my study casement has been unlatched;
but you’ve been off, I guess, teaching gaunt
refugees new names for old sorrows
or at Oxbridge again, haunting quads,
looking for lost honors. The floor’s swept
here, cushions plumped, and the bedskirts tucked
up. Warm milk, thick port, cheesy biscuits,
all are handy, but the oak bookshelves
are warping, and the old bindings crack
in this backwater clime. As for you,
my pretty, what else have I to do
but wait for a slot to open up
in your grey kidskin Life At A Glance?
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