The Ghetto and Other Poems by Lola Ridge
page 38 of 75 (50%)
page 38 of 75 (50%)
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Where the Bowery
Is throbbing like a fistula Back of her ice-scabbed fronts. Livid faces Glimmer in furtive doorways, Or spill out of the black pockets of alleys, Smears of faces like muddied beads, Making a ghastly rosary The night mumbles over And the snow with its devilish and silken whisper... Patrolling arcs Blowing shrill blasts over the Bread Line Stalk them as they pass, Silent as though accouched of the darkness, And the wind noses among them, Like a skunk That roots about the heart... Colder: And the Elevated slams upon the silence Like a ponderous door. Then all is still again, Save for the wind fumbling over The emptily swaying faces-- The wind rummaging Like an old Jew... Faces in glimmering rows... (No sign of the abject life-- |
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