When, after chardonnay and social lies
Night thickens to a syrup of goodbyes,
All Stephen's being sinks towards his thighs
And shadow jungles loom beneath his eyes
Or so he wishes. He in earnest tries
To pad his being to that fierce disguise;
But though the lumbering walk and savage cries
Are simple stuff, and though his hackles rise
At least enough, there's always something ties
Him back somehow. However much he dies
To lose the knowledge that he's worldly-wise,
Some human grit insistently denies
He's on a level with the apes and flies,
Or only fit to live in woods or sties.
And that's what pains him - the precise
Knowledge that, under everything, he's nice.
If you've any comments on this poem, Wayne Carvosso would be pleased to hear from you.