Nouveau venu qui cherches Rome en Rome
O greenhorn who looks for Paris in Paris
Who comes to my house and looks for my home
Know: before the closed door our lares
Crouches, quiet as a, hungry as a tomb.
It guards the groans, ruckus future, ruckus past.
I pretended for years to be the ghost
Of my parents’ marriage. Also, Last
Of the Mohicans, hostess with the most
Until I came at last to be the proud proprietor
Of my own closed door.
To the Census: “Troubleman. Feed Pump Man. Field Operator.”
This quorumed I sez to sleep: you are a bore.