Despair

MAXINE W. KUMIN

is a mildewed tent. Under the center pole
you must either bend double or take to your knees.
And suppose, after all that tugging and smoothing, you ease
yourself, blind end first, into your blanket roll —
wet under, and over, wool scratch, and you lying still,
lashed down for the season, hands crossed between your thighs,
the canvas stink in your nose, the night in your eyes —
what makes you think that rattling your ribs here will
save you? Camper, you are a bone-sore fool.
Somewhere a brown moth beats at a lighted window.
Somewhere a gopher fastens into his mouse.
The ground heaves up its secret muster of toadstools;
they are marching to bear you away to the dumbshow.
Yank up the pegs and come back! Come back in the house.