Here’s a poem from my book Vexed Questions:
The shabby furniture belies its joy,
the wrinkled steel of shabby venetian blinds,
shabby toy left in the corner’s dust,
shabby try at reconciliation,
shabby attempt at concealment,
shabby sweater vulnerable to drafts,
life in the shabby lane, where all is frayed
and everyone’s afraid, a frayed remains,
a shabby, ratty scarf.
Shabby first drafts, littering the floor,
shabby tabby, too sick to preen,
gravy, shabby Navvie
Gunny, runny, tattered, blunt,
shag haircut so attractive in my youth,
shabby scorn scores a cutting hit,
litter the hard yard
of dry garden.
Theory breaks into
Thee or me,
God or three or okra,
ore or our hour.
Shabby curse: Go float a kite on a cliff of desire
on a brook where blackberries
strangle the bank.
The throat can kiss the sharpest word.
The eye can bruise the coolest arm.
The word can cling like soft brown mud.
The ice can hug the window sill.
The clouds can swing the stars away.