Man of Letters

Thomas J. Roach

You came in the back door

Others never found

Thomas J. Roach

Measuring, you rearranged our furniture

Thomas J. Roach

You built a black coffin

In the middle of our busy rug

Thomas J. Roach

You laid down in it

Thomas J. Roach

You died.

Thomas J. Roach

Then you buried yourself

And our house

Under Bodleians of poetry and prose

Thomas J. Roach

But I see you Thomas Stearns Eliot

Inside and older tomb

Where you always lived with

Boredom horror and glory

And where no one ever

Comes and goes

Thomas J. Roach

You sit eternally

As mad Pound found you

Holding your cup and your spoon

Doing the only thing

That could ever make me

Love you.