What block this is I do not know.

The storefront windows stare and glow.

The plows will have a job to clear

The street when it fills up with snow.

The Indian cabbie thinks it queer

To keep the meter running here

Between Park Avenue and Lex

The dirtiest evening of the year.

A weary dispatcher directs

By radio where he must go next.

The only other sound’s the swash

Of windshield wipers badly flexed.

For once, things look demure not brash.

But I need an ATM with cash

Before I can go home and crash,

Before I can go home and crash.

Robert Frost, I think.