A live-in bitterness
Who ignores the coasters
And thrusts the jacket to the floor,
But not in a good-natured way.
She is not absent-minded
Except perhaps in the sense that—
No, not even that.
Bitterness, the invalid, is most
Eminently present and bloated
To falsely fill every interaction
With this and this
Delightful, daring human.
Bitterness, the bitch, cat-calls
Her own kind and projects
Veneers of sneering
Peacoats, which under the glare
Grow taller and more pretentious.
But they are children, all, and our
Dearest friend the bitter ascribes
A malice as ludicrous
As her own familiarity—
Stacking them one atop the other.
So I saw the door in two and admit
The children are simple and honest and
Delightful, daring humans;
And bitterness with her rusted iron spine
Cannot retrieve her jacket.