Through our town one April afternoon,
A "prairie schooner" wound its western way;
The driver humming to himself a tune,
The children playing on a pile of hay.
The mother, "chillin'," in a blanket wrapped,
Slowly fed as fuel, insidious disease;
While the curtains cracked and napped
In the cool south-western breeze.
Behind, two yellow dogs, lank and lean,
Dodged the urchins' sticks and stones;
Or along some alley might be seen
Hunting for stray crumbs and bones.
The horses' looks, in silence plead for corn,
But weary plod along with fading hope;
Behind, a brindle cow with broken horn
Slowly followed up a piece of rope.
I watched them slowly wind the hill,
And away as far as I could see;
With no ambition, and scarce no will,
I wondered what the end would be.
That scene in my memory seemed to freeze.
Though years have rolled by one by one,
I see those curtains flapping in the breeze,
Slowly wending towards the setting sun.
