More than fond fiction or the great long thoughts
I love the human face and voice at play
the strong whine of laughter, the yawps of praise
the soft and lively turns of friendly phrase
which let me know from far across a room
which one of my dear loves is banging whom,
and though it brings me none of glory’s wreaths
or wisdom’s banners to my castle’s gates
I’ll spend my mortal days with worthless bros
who’ll not be feted by yon nations’ braves
or by a scholar’s fawning dissertations
when they are snug and comfy in their graves.