The Young Housewife

At ten a.m. the young housewifemoves about in negligee behindthe wooden walls of her husband’s house.

I pass solitary in my car.

Then again she comes to the curbto call the ice-man, fish-man, and standsshy, uncorseted, tucking instray ends of hair, and I compare herto a fallen leaf.

The noiseless wheels of my carrush with a crackling sound overdried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.