The Bench of Boors

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In bed I muse on Tenier’s boors,
Embrowned and beery losels all:
 A wakeful brain
 Elaborates pain:
Within low doors the slugs of boors
Laze and yawn and doze again.

In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors,
Their hazy hovel warm and small:
 Thought’s ampler bound
 But chill is found:
Within low doors the basking boors
Snugly hug the ember-mound.

Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors
Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall:
 Thought’s eager sight
 Aches—overbright!
Within low doors the boozy boors
Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light.

© Arvind Krishna Mehrotra