What would you give for one of the old yellow streetcars
rocking toward you again through the thick snow?
What would you give for the feeling of joy as you climbed
up the three iron steps and took your place by the cold window?
Oh, what would you give to pick up your stack of books
and walk down the icy path in front of the library?
What would you give for your dream
to be as clear and simple as it was then
in the dark afternoons, at the old scarred tables?