THE owl-car clatters along, dogged by the echo
From building and battered paving-stone.
The headlight scoffs at the mist,
And fixes its yellow rays in the cold slow rain;
Against a pane I press my forehead
And drowsily look on the walls and sidewalks.

The headlight finds the way
And life is gone from the wet and the welter--
Only an old woman, bloated, disheveled and bleared.
Far-wandered waif of other days,
Huddles for sleep in a doorway,
Homeless.

Added: Feb 4 2004 | Viewed: 3592 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Carl Sandburg
Poem: 10. Old Woman
Volume: Chicago Poems
- Other Days (1900-1910)
Year: Published/Written in 1900
Poem of the Day: Jun 8 2005
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