Letter To N.Y.

The poem

For Louise Crane

In your next letter I wish you'd say where you are going and what you are doing; how are the plays and after the plays what other pleasures you're pursuing:

taking cabs in the middle of the night, driving as if to save your soul where the road gose round and round the park and the meter glares like a moral owl,

and the trees look so queer and green standing alone in big black caves and suddenly you're in a different place where everything seems to happen in waves,

and most of the jokes you just can't catch, like dirty words rubbed off a slate, and the songs are loud but somehow dim and it gets so teribly late,

and coming out of the brownstone house to the gray sidewalk, the watered street, one side of the buildings rises with the sun like a glistening field of wheat.

--Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid if it's wheat it's none of your sowing, nevertheless I'd like to know what you are doing and where you are going.