A brown drool of dew
Crackling woven's clue
sitting on a desk pike
adjacent copies alike

But still he sits and gapes
on the old momento he keepsakes
with sober hands that rests
and of mellow smith's vest

on a creaky chair
with a pendulum clock
and a photograph he holds dear
as four seasons pass by the dreary wedlock

Through a thin-tormented picture
shallow eyes become ruddy
like an ill-fated venture
The lost of his Mrs. and laddie

that dim sullen memento of his
in that old wan home
is what brings him bliss
but locked inside a semi-finite dome
-he is-