I’m going to a house where I don't know the names

I’m going to a house where I don't know the names,

to play at the dinner-time socialite games.

I reach for the wool that is knotted and old,

to keep out the draft and the talk and the cold.

I scraped with a razor to clear off the grit,

but only made holes where the fibers were knit.

The cuffs have these barnacles, gray and so small,

I’ll hide my thick hands and say nothing at all.