No room for magnanimity at this level,
here, there are knees, soot, stoor,
Sitting under table-cloths,
I get hands-on with threadbare rugs,
silverskins, peel rusty sink-pipes,
tear tiny strips off of wallpaper.
Their heids and conversations
are on other stuff,
and three feet higher.
Morse code skitters
the air of my raggedy understanding.
It puzzles me, how ye can have
a joyless house with a piano.
The window-sill’s edge
is a year away on tiptoes.