A Teacup Full of Stories

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.