Classic Poem

I. The Bureau, and Later

Outside the Bureau all the trams and trains
Prattled securely, with us out of air
To ply like bits of refuse among drains
Nudging each other nastily when it rains.

Only the suck or slap of rubber sole
At marble was our case and hearing. Spare
Butts, down to earth, drafted one smoky scroll
For factory, office, wharf, and police patrol.

I pitied the man behind the counter, who'd
Hear us be cruelly serious, hear us swear,
Be funny, No-speak-English — see us bowed
Under the weight of tools to make him God.

Later: — this swine with platitudinous
Squeaks of his oily leather-bottomed chair
Makes up his mouth to tell me less and less
And plays at being Satan, with more success.

To the most dangerous driver, righteous heat,
Our traffic-lights are neither here nor there.
I stare at the pock-marked baby while I eat
And walk past the blind mouth-organist on the street.

II. Hard-luck Story

" Yes, this is the stop for Central. Yes, right here.
Cold weather? Right, I'll try a tailor-made" —
Breaking the ice is moving mountains, sheer
Bravado if there's no time for a prayer.

Frayed eyelids button on to me; this thin
Lip of the cold snap will not have me wade
Or even pet my carefully nourished skin
To reassure it before plunging in.

Taxes and breadless children swim or drown
Without mercy inside his overcoat. Afraid?
So I am — but citizens pay to see again
A great dramatist's aquarium of pain.

His bony, dickering, artist's hands attach
Years to my ears; from their ice-box of shade
Castles crane forward, puff themselves up, and watch
For the foolhardy twinkle of my match.