The Overcast Day
There are, seen through New York windows,
Water towers with conical iron tops;
Within windows there are piles of cards,
Decks of cards, drawers of cards;
There is smoke in grey skies, overcast skies;
There is smoke in minds,
Smoke of production, smoke of battle, smoke of change,
Smoke that settles thinly everywhere,
Mingles with dust,
Ends up in waste cans, on the soles of shoes,
In sewers, on the walls of towers slowly darkening . . . .
Rain gurgles in drains on days when dark skies come to that;
Water towers stand up murkily,
Smoke stacks vaguely,
Facades eerily, autos grumpily;
And people in rooms feel,
"It's pouring outside and I'm inside;"
Is this all they feel?
They say, "Curses, my coat is hanging on a hanger,"
They say, "My rubbers are without windows and are close."
In bed the sick man lies and listens to the rain;
He is soothed, soon sleeps;
Cables, sleeping always, walls, sleeping soundly,
Resist the forces of smoke, winds, and rain,
Don't know when the sun shines;
They are not alive,
They stay where they were put
Somewhere in New York City,
Home of millions.
Copyright 2007 by Louis Dienes