I
O, I can tell when I get to my corner,
Where to turn in going to my house.
On the other corners along the avenue,
Northward and southward where the cars grind,
Are saloons and drug stores,
Glaring with signals and bright glass.
On both sides of the street the same,
One block like the next.
But on my corner is a florist’s shop
With ferns in the window
And sweet-peas and roses,
Glowing with red and pink and yellow.
And sometimes pansies
And moss.
Each night as I step down from the car
There the flowers are waiting
To say I have got home.
And I linger
Seeing gardens.
II
The room I have now is narrow,
Narrow
Like a coffin.
As plain and as straight
And as tight as a coffin.
Two corners at the end of it,
Are rounded off where the head lies.
Ugh!
In the bed, you stiffen
And look down at your feet
As if buried.
On the right side is the high bureau,
On the left side is the high desk—
How high and stiff and black they are!
How high and stiff and black they are
And what is “I” dwells in the cañon between,—
Where at any moment the narrowness may tumble and fall in upon me!
How far off the ceiling appears over my eyes!
At the coffin’s head one window;
At the coffin’s foot, one chair.