Sophistication visited today.
He didn’t have a lot to say.
He had a horror of cliché.
He sat there with a vacant air.
in his tasteful greenish chair
(I wondered how he’d got it there) –
as if most thinking didn’t matter –
and talking was a vulgar clatter,
feelings self-indulgent spatter –
that it was better just to sit
and sip a drink and quit
discussing it.
I agreed I disliked pap,
then crawled into his bony lap
and yawning, with him, took a nap.
.
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