Jail, a Tramp Rhythm

In the chill, grey drip of a winter morn
They dragged us off to jail.
The young moon tipped her ghostly horn
Where a patch of mist grew pale. . . .

Closer our ragged coats we drew,
Though it was in the South. . . .
The Sheriff had on eye 'stead of two
And a cruel twist to his mouth. . . .

The Yard was full of shadowy cars. . . .
A distant whistle screamed.
Switch-lights glimmered like scattered stars. . . .
An engine clanked and steamed. . . .

Dusk cars, dim-bodied, looming shapes,
Stood ranged in a huddled line. . . .
In soft release the air escapes;
A lantern lifts, a-shine. . . .

It lifts and falls … the cinders crunch. . . .
A brakeman passes near …
Then the cars jerk and roar and plunge
Like herds that move with fear. . . .

And so they led us off to jail
Upon that winter morn
When the young moon made the dusk grow pale
With the fire of its fading horn.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.