A Pushcart at the Curb

by John Dos Passos

Battery Park

IV

Buildings shoot rigid perpendiculars
latticed with window-gaps
into the slate sky.

Where the wind comes from
the ice crumbles
about the edges of green pools;
from the leaping of white thighs
comes a smooth and fleshly sound,
girls grip hands and dance
grey moss grows green under the beat
of feet of saffron
crocus-stained.

Where the wind comes from
purple windflowers sway
on the swelling verges of pools,
naked girls grab hands and whirl
fling heads back
stamp crimson feet.

Buildings shoot rigid perpendiculars
latticed with window-gaps
into the slate sky.

Garment-workers loaf in their overcoats
(stare at the gay breasts of pigeons
that strut and peck in the gutters).
Their fingers are bruised tugging needles
through fuzzy hot layers of cloth,
thumbs roughened twirling waxed thread;
they smell of lunchrooms and burnt cloth.
The wind goes among them
detaching sweat-smells from underclothes
making muscles itch under overcoats
tweaking legs with inklings of dancetime.

Bums on park-benches
spit and look up at the sky.

Garment-workers in their overcoats
pile back into black gaps of doors.

Where the wind comes from
scarlet windflowers sway
on rippling verges of pools,
sound of girls dancing
thud of vermillion feet.