Auden is chiding me

from his Kirchstetten grave

for not writing alcaics.

I love you, Uncle Wystan,

but I'm just doin' my thing.

For the morning headclears,

we need not be formal.

We can pad about the house

in yesterday's t-shirt, in

pajamas with holes at the knees,

in gym socks dustier

than a used bookstore.