Spring

A spring wind on the Bowery, Blowing the fluff of night shelters Off bedraggled garments, And agitating the gutters, that eject little spirals of vapor Like lewd growths.

Bare-legged children stamp in the puddles, splashing each other, One--with a choir-boy's face Twits me as I pass... The word, like a muddied drop, Seems to roll over and not out of The bowed lips, Yet dewy red And sweetly immature.

People sniff the air with an upward look-- Even the mite of a girl Who never plays... Her mother smiles at her With eyes like vacant lots Rimming vistas of mean streets And endless washing days... Yet with sun on the lines And a drying breeze.

The old candy woman Shivers in the young wind. Her eyes--littered with memories Like ancient garrets, Or dusty unaired rooms where someone died-- Ask nothing of the spring.

But a pale pink dream Trembles about this young girl's body, Draping it like a glowing aura.

She gloats in a mirror Over her gaudy hat, With its flower God never thought of...

And the dream, unrestrained, Floats about the loins of a soldier, Where it quivers a moment, Warming to a crimson Like the scarf of a toreador...

But the delicate gossamer breaks at his contact And recoils to her in strands of shattered rose.