The Scientist

Clothed in silent meekness,
Without an enemy in the world,
He stretches his feminine hand
To the infinitesimal specimen,
To fix the microscope,
To cover his mouth from a cough.
The air conditioner shuts its whir
With a catarrhal bang,
And he exhales a eulogy.

And outside the world beams
With warmth and brightness,
Which he never sees,
And his wife, lost in her delusion,
Still emanates a warmth
Which he can't quite understand.

And so he throws it all away
And dedicates the day
To study, study, study,
And a soul unrecognized
Dies just the same.