The dying stalks of grass beside the highway
Barely stir as traffic passes
Sibilant whispers hissing through the double glass
I look through from where I sit
Staring at the choking face whose
Lone unblinking eye stares out
Such that the glover’s son might call him Hugh
When he first makes his score

I think that I am like the grass
And if it moves but little with cars passing close by
Think what I do sitting further from the road

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