Every Sunday they left a circus of dust behind them,
as they poured out on the turnpike in stately, overcowded
and the showers found nobody at home,
and trampled through the bedroom windows.
It was a custom at these staid Sunday dinners
to serve courses of rain instead of roast-beef;
on the baroque sideboard, by the Sunday silver,
the wind cut corners like a boy on a new bicycle.
Upstairs, the curtain-rods whirled, untouched;
the curtains rose like a salvo to the ceiling.
Outside the burghers kept losing themselves,
they showed up chewing straws by cow-ponds.