(spam poem by Edward Desautels)

we looked with cold eyes
on the little men standing in our gardens
and gravely offfered these phantoms
every consideration and kindness

on the opposite side of our little town
doctors made their discoveries
and shut the dark neighborhoods
that had taken leave of their senses

we believed ourselves perfect
left lobster plates for the old majority
and rolled up
that which we could not remove

it was autumn

as if part of the refuse
cast out of our cottages and into the night
we left our friends and patrons
for the ever-so-far mountains

we rose there to watch our days pass by us
pondered the love of our children
took the mutton off the gridiron
and clung to our manners

to sit here telling such stories
without speech or motion
is to cling to vigor and surprise
even when it’s time to disappear