Old Woman
Carl Sandburg
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.
