by Howard Nemerov

Out in the elegy country, summer evenings,
It used to be always six o'clock, or seven,
Where the fountain of the willow always wept
Over the lawn, where the shadows crept longer
But came no closer, where the talk was brilliant,
The laughter friendly, where they all were young
And taken by the darkness in surprise
That night should come and the small lights go on
In the lonely house down in the elegy country,
Where the bitter things were said and the drunken friends
Steadied themselves away in their courses
For industrious ruin or casual disaster
Under a handful of pale, permanent stars.

"Blue Suburban" by Howard Nemerov, from The Selected Poems of Howard Nemerov. © Swallow Press, 2003.

Heard on Writers' Almanac this morning. I confess that I feel slightly deviant (or at least unusual) listening to poetry while driving to my job at the health club.