Rather An Undeserving Person

Than a cruel one, rather cruel
Than homicidally cruel,
And now we’ve wandered rather

Far from the simple idea
That there are worse things to loathe
In a person than being

Rather undeserving. There.
Now. Having settled that much,
Here is a small reservoir

Of kindness and of water
Gathered from last winter’s snows.
The reservoir’s getting low,

But there’s still enough to boat
In something that needs paddles
Or oars, to float dead center

Of the mirror, into which
A body in winter might
Crawl intending suicide,

Which now seems rather pleasant,
The good life, undeserving
Of itself—small, calm, blue, good.