The chaos won't abate. The wife, who's newly out of work,
Is here and there, in need of entertainment, and she always
Talks. The grandkids, who were said to have been taken
Elsewhere by their parents, keep on showing up. It's become
Very hard for me to write, and, truly, that's all I am now,
A pen upon a piece of paper. Otherwise, I mope and mutter,
An old man, who, once, perhaps, though at no time I recollect,
Had other, vaguely valued uses, peers past corners at
The chaos, wishing without confidence that it soon will abate.