Classic Poem

At thirty-one, when some are rich
And others dead,
I, being neither, have a job instead,

I know, none better,
The eyelessness of days without a letter;

Ends in themselves, my letters plot no change;
They carry nothing dutiable; they won't
Aspire, astound, establish or estrange.

Another evening wasted! I begin
Writing the envelope, and a bitter smoke
Of self-contempt, of boredom too, ascends.
What use is an endearment and a joke?