Supper in an Alms-House

On seven inches of sidewalk I stand.

I look into the street where autos move-

their wheels whirl the comfortable away

and leave poison for my nose.

This land-at least this city-must be intelligent;

walking attires on men, constant new scenes.

Even an aged man will change his shirt and boil his cuffs,

his collar starched, his suspenders lifted to his neck;

or let the typist swish her coat together-firm-

a man collapses.

The moon is in a cellar with religion;

as the bottles pop they find a new law.

I shall bow to him in religion

for a bowl of string-bean soup.

His hair is combed, his vest is garlanded.

Looking to the East where the sun once came today

even the rapture of his Lord I shall miss

as the soup finds its worship.

And the cannons do not aim at the sky.

Harry Roskolenkier