Letter to N.Y. -- Elizabeth Bishop

(Poem #162)Letter to N.Y. In your next letter I wish you'd say where you are going and what you are doing;  how are the plays, and after the plays  what other pleasures you're pursuing: taking cabs in the middle of the night,  driving as if to save your soul  where the road goes round and round the park  and the meter glares like a moral owl, and the trees look so queer and green standing alone in big black caves  and suddenly you're in a different place  where everything seems to happen in waves, and most of the jokes you just can't catch,  like dirty words rubbed off a slate,  and the songs are loud but somehow dim  and it gets so terribly late, and coming out of the brownstone house  to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,  one side of the buildings rises with the sun  like a glistening field of wheat. —Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid  if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,  nevertheless I'd like to know what you are doing and where you are going. -- Elizabeth Bishop