A window box, hanging,
Forlornly from the city spires,
Overlooking siren screams
And gazing down
At lovers walking blithely through the rain,
Viewing just
The tops of their umbrella,
Wet hem of her skirt brushes the pavement edge;
Gone together;
And the box is full of stars,
Never seen
By all these people
With all these places to be,
Who look not up
At a window box, hanging green
In the lamplight
Of the city.
