The Garden of Jane Delawney

We're done.
An imposible number of trains glide
To and fro below my window.
My guts sense it, they twist.
I lit fag after fag.
I should wash this sheets
Ought to be doing laundry.
My name is Jane Doe,
My name is Jane Eyre,
My name is Jane Delawney.
Until I spill the beans, the beans
And the garden feel nothing.