What does it matter that I am

neglectful, when no body but mine

goes hungry? What stake have you

in these four ribs—and those?

Do not condescend to know my heart,

or that I have one all myself 

and more to give, or that 

anyone deserves my

fragility. You do not, sir,

so that we’re clear, although I laugh.

For I cannot be serious, another fish

in my secret reservoir.