TWO CITIES
28
The cold hangs on along North River,
A little late for January thaw
And a little early for spring.
Old Foot feels tired.
. . . Well,
You too would be
If
you had walked as many useless miles
As he.
Old Foot leans back.
The city sounds
Remotely tax the car
As though somewhere not very far
Nor very near,
People got up in the gray of morning,
Went to work,
Drew pay checks
And came home before dark,
As though somewhere
There throbbed a breath
Affirming life,
Negating death.
The cold hangs on along North River,
But there are those who have warm coats
And there are those who do not shiver.
Here, U. S. A., is my report:
There is Lank Davis, going west,
His suitcase packed,
His coat and vest
Buttoned against the cold,
His hat
Slung debonair across his face;
And Chico, lonely, dreams upon
Brazil, the Argentine,
A place
