II.
Afternoon has fallen on this street,
Like an imbecilic organ-grinder
Grinning over his discords.
Dead men and women spin
Their miracles of motion
Upon the grayness of this street.
In this old Jew’s shop
A woman bargains over calico.
With a ghostly naïveté
She reprimands the price of her shroud.
In this pawn-shop stands a man
Parting with his clarinet.
He walks away, with dangling arms,
Like a swindled Gabriel.
In a lunchroom sits a woman
Whose face is a tired sin
Seeking comfort in religion.
A young girl near her is an angel
Puzzled by streaks of mud upon her face
And asking questions of her vanity.
Outside, dead men and women
Are whipped on by the explosive magic
Of an old, resistless masquerade.
Street-cars, wagons, and motor-trucks
Rattle their parodies on life,
And over all the afternoon
Twists, like an imbecilic organ-grinder
Snickering over his discords.