A spring wind on the Bowery, <br />Blowing the fluff of night shelters <br />Off bedraggled garments, <br />And agitating the gutters, that eject little spirals of vapor <br />Like lewd growths. <br /> <br />Bare-legged children stamp in the puddles, splashing each other, <br />One - with a choir-boy's face <br />Twits me as I pass… <br />The word, like a muddied drop, <br />Seems to roll over and not out of <br />The bowed lips, <br />Yet dewy red <br />And sweetly immature. <br /> <br />People sniff the air with an upward look - <br />Even the mite of a girl <br />Who never plays… <br />Her mother smiles at her <br />With eyes like vacant lots <br />Rimming vistas of mean streets <br />And endless washing days… <br />Yet with sun on the lines <br />And a drying breeze. <br /> <br />The old candy woman <br />Shivers in the young wind. <br />Her eyes - littered with memories <br />Like ancient garrets, <br />Or dusty unaired rooms where someone died - <br />Ask nothing of the spring. <br /> <br />But a pale pink dream <br />Trembles about this young girl's body, <br />Draping it like a glowing aura. <br /> <br />She gloats in a mirror <br />Over her gaudy hat, <br />With its flower God never thought of… <br /> <br />And the dream, unrestrained, <br />Floats about the loins of a soldier, <br />Where it quivers a moment, <br />Warming to a crimson <br />Like the scarf of a toreador… <br /> <br />But the delicate gossamer breaks at his contact <br />And recoils to her in strands of shattered rose.<br /><br />Lola Ridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spring-199/
