Sobs En Route to a Penitentiary

Good-by now to the streets and the clash of wheels and
     locking hubs,
The sun coming on the brass buckles and harness knobs.
The muscles of the horses sliding under their heavy
     haunches,
Good-by now to the traffic policeman and his whistle,
The smash of the iron hoof on the stones,
All the crazy wonderful slamming roar of the street--
O God, there's noises I'm going to be hungry for.