You Ain't a Beauty But Hey, You're Alright...
We make our meek adjustments,
contented with such random consolations 
as the wind deposits in slithered and too ample pockets.
For we can still love the world, those of us who find a famished kitten on the doorstep; 
we know recesses for it from the fury of the street; or warm, torn elbow covers.
We will sidestep, and til that final smirk, dally the doom of that inevitable thumb
that slowly chafes its puckered index toward us, 
facing the dull squint with what innocence and what surprise!
And yet these fine collapses are not lies more than the pirouettes of any pliant cane; 
our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise. 
We can evade you, and all else but the heart: what blame to us if that heart lives on. 
The game enforces smirks; but we have seen the moon in lonely alleys,
making a grail of laughter of an empty ash can,
and through all sound of gaiety and quest; 
have heard a kitten in the wilderness.
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