To an Aesthete Dying Young
From a run-down house on Douglas Street,
I can hear the train whistle, long and loud.
And the metal smell from the casting plant
Drifts in on the wind — a poison cloud.
As the moon scores a field goal through the steeples of the Cathedral,
I lie in bed, but I can’t sleep.
So I’m writing you this letter.
I hope it will find you better
Than when we last spoke.
The East Coast does not seem to suit you, my friend.
Those professors will only pollute your brain.
So stick to your room: stay out of the rain.
Practice your piano, or frail your banjo.
It’s all right to spend a little time at your local.
Your worries won’t kill you, thought it sounds like you hope so.