His
children,
pronouncedly
exploding
amidst
a carnival
of
joviality—
He spars—daily—
In the pugilistic
cage
of ends-meet grind
At
a time much past the dinner hour
he
waits, for moments—assembling
what
cheer’s left standing
outside
his front-door—
Punch-drunk
from
corruption,
and
it’s bare-knuckled ends
but
bruises alone—
could not damper
the atmosphere
within
And
to his howling innocents,
he needn’t pretend—
grinning,
as pride returned—
and
with each an arm to clasp quite close
remember, he did,
the
many reasons why
so hard he tried
