With apologies to Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a friend while going out to drink
who said, “Two small and fruitless pits of plum
Lie in the compost … Near them, by the sink,
A crinkled slip of paper sits, with some
Excuses sketched, whose spareness, and whose bold
Enjambment, show its author’s deft command
Of image and effect can still take hold
And guide the pen he takes up in his hand.
And on the page words measured and controlled:
‘I ate the plums that you had saved. Forgive
me; they were delicious, so sweet and cold’.
Behold the narcissist with whom I live!
No offer to replace the food he steals,
As if his verse made up for missing meals.”