Dusted then dried I feel like old furniture Stored out of sight Where only the rare roach Or wayward cat Will ever find me The rare visitor Will leave a tip Penny, nickel, or dime Along with a wish Which as keeper of the deep Is mine to grant Falling into winter Leaves me with a shiver This stony bottom Lets snow linger Springing into summer Leaves me with a fever The sun above Disturbs my broken-leg peace Shouting is pointless The months pass by With only a hope of company An august June bug may march by in July, April may realize I'm alive Either way I am fine The subterranean pessimist Sees things only one way If it is not sunny, it is raining.