Habitude

Every proud and unreasoning day,
too aged too climb above
the level of your eyes,
retired as a watchman.
Lead flies on a window,
so visible and awkward,
at the Club of Sanctified Neglect
and the Blind Currency Mint,
both being barred and barring,
deceiving the exclusivity of prisons
or of grand hotels,
sporting, as they must,
potted palms
and dusty strangers
who must not speak.

The back of my hand...