Carter, the telegraph-operator, sighed And propped his eyes awake again. He was tired. Dog-tired, stone-tired, body and mind burnt up With too much poker last night and too little sleep. He hated the Sunday trick. It was Riley’s turn To take it, but Riley’s wife was having a child. He cursed the child and the wife and Sunday and Riley. Nothing ever happened at Stroudsburg Siding And yet he had to be here and keep awake With the flat, stale taste of too little sleep in his mouth And wait for nothing to happen. His bulky body Lusted for sleep with every muscle and nerve. He’d rather have sleep than a woman or whiskey or money. He’d give up the next three women that might occur For ten minutes’ sleep, he’d never play poker again, He’d⁠—battered face beginning to droop on his hands⁠— Sleep⁠—women⁠—whiskey⁠—eyelids too heavy to lift⁠— “Yes, Ma, I said, ‘Now I lay me.’ ”⁠— The sounder chattered