Train Window

Small towns 

Crawling out of their green shirts . . . 

Tubercular towns 

Coughing a little in the dawn . . . 

And the church  . . . 

There is always a church

With its natty spire

And the vestibule —

That’s where they whisper: 

Tzz-tzz . . . tzz-tzz . . . tzz-tzz. . . .

How many codes for a wireless whisper—

And corn flatter than it should be 

And those chits of leaves

Gadding with every wind? 

Small towns 

From Connecticut to Maine: 

Tzz-tzz . . .tzz-tzz . . . tzz-tzz. . .