For mosquitoes, repellent. For chest
colds, steam. For anger, time. For robbers, locks.
Against self-pity, strongest of pests?
Nothing for that but the final box.
In Dismay to a Recent Laureate
Chatty and breezy, all right, but gassy makes me swear.
A comfortable poem should be at least a well-made armchair:
Yielding to the bottom while still keeping it in the air.