A Poem

The postman's ring, the doctor's call,

The damage done by the plumbers' men,

The rise in wages, the mercury's fall,

Knitting needles and crochet hooks,

An afternoon nap in a nice warm shawl,

And now and then, as a special treat,

A funeral passing down the street.

That's the way the future looks

When I've grown tired of books.

-by Edith Wharton