FIFTEEN

Out in the bottom of the
Cold winter garden
Is a little lonely wooden hut;
Inside this standing building
Sleeps your tall frame,
In your tweed coat.
Morning awakes in this
Cold winter garden,
Albeit prudential,
In suburbia sweet.

Sleeping past tense in this
Post frozen garden,
In a little morning rut.
Get up and go back to your indoors,
Where your woman is playing.
Creeping softly from this
Mild winter garden,
In time for retention,
And passed potential;
Back into your woodhouse.