One pocket full of crumbs
in the other shrivelled chestnut,
between weather fingered thumbs
The chaff we can’t forget rubs.
In the lining of lapels
are the remnants of soft petals,
and a fair ground list of spells
That a Gypsy never settled.
Where once the button met the eye
no longer shall they couple,
how elegantly they did lie
where now the creases sadly crumple
The threadbare loop is fraying more
each longer night untwisting,
it hangs there lonely on the door,
No earthly thing is listening.