T-Shirt Ghetto

My novels all unjacketed perspire
On little tables quite beyond my count,
And half-read periodicals conspire
To keep my mail unread in its account;
Would as the lady who dusts off my desk
That I could cleanly paper through my head
And flick apart the lovely and grotesque!
My mind is not made up; nor is my bed.
With papers tumbled everywhere, bow-ties,
Handkerchiefs half-folded, with mismatched floods
Of grosgrain threatening my pumps, what surprise
To find my cufflinks gleaming with their studs?
As gold is dressed in ore until it's mined,
So dross and gold both glitter in my mind.