En Monocle

BORN with a monocle he stares at life,

And sends his soul on pensive promenades;

He pays a high price for discarded gods,

And then regilds them to renew their strife.

His calm moustache points to the ironies,

And a faun-colored laugh sucks in the night,

Full of the riant mists that turn to white

In brief lost battles with banalities.

Masters are makeshifts, and a path to tread

For blue pumps that are ardent for the air;

Features are fixtures when the face is fled,

And we are left to the husks of tarnished hair;

But he is one who lusts uncomforted

To kiss the naked phrase quite unaware.

Donald Evans

In the Gentlemanly Interest

HE polished snubs till they were regnant art,

Curling their shameless toilets round the hour.

Each lay upon his lips an exquisite flower

Subtly malign and poison for its part.

The path of victims was no wanton plan--

He had bowed his head in sorrow at his birth,

For he had said long ere he had come to earth

That it was no place for a gentleman.

But always a heart-scald lurked behind the screen,

And somehow he missed the ultimate degrees.

He saw a beggar at the daylight's fall,

And then he rose and robed him for the scene;

And when they called him cad he found release--

He knew he had used the finest snub of all.

Donald Evans

Epicede

WISTFULLY shimmering, shamelessly wise and weak,

He lives in pawn, pledging a battered name;

He loves his failures as one might love fame,

And listens for the ghost years as they speak.

A fragrance bright and broken clasps his head,

And wildwood airs sing a frayed interlude;

While cloaked he comes in a new attitude

To play gravedigger, if the word be said.

He swore he would be glad and only glad,

And turned to Broadway for the peace of God.

He found it in the bottom of the glass;

For where the dregs lay it seemed less than sad,

And 'mid the murmur when the dance was trod

He heard the echo of a genius pass.

Donald Evans