Nobody wears a yellow
flower in his buttonhole
he is altogether a queer fellow
as young as he is old
when autumn comes
who twiddles his white thumbs
and frisks down the boulevards
without his coat and hat
—(and i wonder just why that
should please him or i wonder what he does)
and why (at the bottom of this trunk,
under some dirty collars)only a
moment
(or
was it perhaps a year)ago I found staring
me in the face a dead yellow small rose