There always was a Courthouse in the Square, A cupolaed Courthouse, drowsing Time away Behind the grey-white pillars of its porch Like an old sleepy judge in a spotted gown; And, down the Square, always a languid jail Of worn, uneven brick with moss in the cracks Or stone weathered the grey of weathered pine. The plump jail-master wore a linen duster In summer, and you used to see him sit Tilted against the wall in a pine-chair, Spitting reflectively in the warm dust While endless afternoons slowly dissolved Into the longer shadow, the dust-blue twilight. Higgledy-piggledy days⁠—days that are gone⁠— The trotters are dead, all the yellow-painted sulkies Broken for firewood⁠—the old Courthouse grin Through new false-teeth of Alabama limestone⁠— The haircloth lap-robe weeps on a Ford radiator⁠—