Nestled in the walnut chair
I am a buried louse.
I’ve proudly chomped on this hard wood
And made a wooden house.
By day, I watch my window,
Strange figures passing by—
By night, oppressed by loneliness,
I heave a heavy sigh.
I listen to man’s chatter
With my gnarled lousy ear
And fall in love with words and songs
That I then overhear.
Cursing my limpid, open heart
I mourn my loveless plight
And scramble out my wooden hole
Into dawn’s withering light.
