Rummage the House in Vain

Robinson Crusoe's daughters Worry about a chest, Left in the windy attic Under the swallow's nest,

Smelling of tar and seaweed, Robinson Crusoe's hoard; Prop for the ironing board. Once it stood in the kitchen,

Often a phantom polly Shouted and jigged within; Sobbed for a sunflower pastry, Begged for a tot of gin;

Boasted his charts for reading, Gold for a candle glow; Bragged of his ghostly honor— Being the watch below.

Robinson Crusoe's daughters Rummage the house in vain; Never that brazen mimic Copies the anchor chain;

Never he grounds the musket— That was his midnight jest, Guarding a desert island Locked in a sailor's chest.

Stairways are taught to listen While they are matching seed, Mixing enticing pastries Fit for a phantom's need.

Robinson Crusoe's laughter, Robinson Crusoe's fears, Remnants of old devotions Dusty and stained with years.