He is not one man, he is four windows.
These panes are silled and glass louvered.
In the first is seen an ample orchard,
an orgy of apples picked by two women.
In the second are his boys, sitting in the frame,
a leg each dangling out, smoking his cigarettes
The third is omnipresent, and tosses out
rodents and error insects; it is his bin of trash,
and from where he loses what won't keep.
In the fourth, if you stand on your toes and lift
your head to see in, are all the men he is made of:
They stock each pants in shambles,
each has each, meager and fetched in place.
Is it their hats are too heavy, that cherries of sight,
sleepless blears, drop from their faces to floor,
and watch there, a breathing, heavy purchase?
He longs for the women, he punishes the boys,
he flings out trash, and none of the men look out.
The jalousie panes are settled and stalled.
He is not one man.