Sobs En Route to a Penitentiary
Good-by now to the streets and the clash of wheels and
The sun coming on the brass buckles and harness knobs.
The muscles of the horses sliding under their heavy
Good-by now to the traffic policeman and his whistle,
The smash of the iron hoof on the stones,
All the crazy wonderful slamming roar of the street-
O God, there's noises I'm going to be hungry for.