Wayside Grief

 I sat upon a park settee,

     Dejected and alone;

The passers by spoke not to me,

     No kindly look was shown.

They talked and jested merrily,

     My grief they did not know;

Each sound was like a stab to me,

     And yet, I could not go.

Gay wheelmen passed me on their way,

     More sad, alas, I grew;

Far from my home was I astray,

     But no one passing knew.

And thus I gazed in envy there,

     With naught to do but sit;

Because I had a punctured tire,

     And had no mending kit.

Oct. 20, ‘98

Pub. in Little Joker,    1898