Nobody wears a yellow
flower in his buttonhole
he is altogether a queer fellow
as young as he is old

when autumn comes
who twiddles his white thumbs
and frisks down the boulevards

without his coat and hat

—(and i wonder just why that
should please him or i wonder what he does)

and why (at the bottom of this trunk,
under some dirty collars)only a
was it perhaps a year)ago I found staring

me in the face a dead yellow small rose