EN MONOCLE

Born with a monocle he stares at life,

And sends his soul on pensive promenades;

He pays a high price for discarded gods,

And then regilds them to renew their strife.

His calm moustache points to the ironies,

And a fawn-coloured laugh sucks in the night,

Full of the riant mists that turn to white

In brief lost battles with banalities.

Masters are makeshifts and a path to tread

For blue pumps that are ardent for the air;

Features are fixtures when the face is fled,

And we are left the husks of tarnished hair;

But he is one who lusts uncomforted

To kiss the naked phrase quite unaware.