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The Tragedy of the Leaves

I awakened to dryness, and the ferns were dead.
The potted plants, yellow as corn.
My woman was gone..
and the empty beer bottles, like blood corpses
surrounded me with their uselessness.
The sun was still good, though,
and my landlady's note, cracked in fine and
undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
was a good comedian, andcient style, a jester
with jokes upon absurd pain.
Pain is absurd because it exists, nothing more.
I shaved carefully with an old razor
the man who had once been young and
said to have genius; but
that's the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming, screaming for rent
because the world has failed us both.