The Man on the Train
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This is the gate, here is the key,
cellar’s open, larder free:
latter empty, first half-full,
piano more or less in tune
and my remaindered library,
its books like yesterdays’ papers:
black and white and read all over,
like an embarrassed penguin or,
should I say, a bleeding nun?
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It long has seemed to me
words allow what you let them.
Tell me, do you listen to Schumann?
I like your poetry and, most of all,
the way you have things gently.
Your life, it looks like heaven.
Well, put the gun away,
you’re on platform number seven.
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