An attractive mention on the avenue of Sardanapalus.
A pair of cast-iron lions with their hind legs complex.
In the hall, like a grinning footman, the black Steinway lets
the owner’s fat-fingered, myopic, porous
grandniece poke its molars in broad daylight.
Lavender smells. Everywhere., including the kitchen,
outnumbering dishes, hang oils and etchings
depicting the Teacher, whose kinsfolk might
still be living somewhere in Europe. Hence, sets of Goethe, plus
some Balzacs, chandeliers, capitals, gay putti,
and the very columns who’s supple body
houses a battery of the “ground-to-ground” class.

But it feels the coziest in the eastern, i.e., his wing.
Bedroom windows hug poplars, or else it's alders.
And the cricket’s chirr’s softer than all those idle
bird feeders with their sensitive relay wink.
Here in the evening you may snap the lock, undress
to the lilac sweat shirt, to the matching long johns, whatever.
A far-off crow’s nest in the branches suggest the beaver
of a Jewess he knew in his salad days,
but thank heaven they've split. And what really makes you crawl
to the bed of those eight-digit budget figures routinely hoarded
by the staff, or the last mortal screams of his confessed-it-all
son, apparently tape-recorded.