A half a loaf of bread lay awry on a crumby and rumpled and mended table cloth where the breakfast dishes were stacked in crooked piles. The room was dark ... an oil stove in the corner made the hot air heavier. On the tubs, wrapped in towels, a tiny baby lay. The mother was speaking: and trying to wipe the wisps of hair out of her heavy eyes. She said: “Say, ain’t it queer the things you dream about?”
RAIN IN THE CITY AT NIGHT
The streets are black.
They shine.
And every light,
From lamp-post and from store,
Makes a golden path
Across the street.
Drops of rain
Spatter,