Morning at the Window
| THEY are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens, | |
| And along the trampled edges of the street | |
| I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids | |
| Sprouting despondently at area gates. | |
| The brown waves of fog toss up to me | 5 |
| Twisted faces from the bottom of the street, | |
| And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts | |
| An aimless smile that hovers in the air | |
| And vanishes along the level of the roofs. |