How fruitless I have toiled these sullen hours.
The only art I know is servitude-
To Labor, and in exchange of my time
Procure what we possess: this morning bread,
Your second skin, this leather-covered seat,
This tin roof beneath the battering rain:
And all the mute and deaf and blind witnesses
Of this naked moment I share with you
Before this random peter-patter ends
And the avenging sun takes it away-
Away from the poetry of your love,
Back to the bosom of my poverty.