by Lola Ridge (1873)
Of faces, façades, pawn-shops,
Smoky and fly-blown glass of lunch-rooms,
Odors of rancid life. . .
Of eyes and windows
Alike devoid of light. . .
Holes wherein life scratches—
Nosing to the gutter’s end. . .
Show-rooms and mimic pillars
Flaunting out of their gaudy vestibules
Bosoms and posturing thighs. . .
Over all the Elevated
Droning like a bloated fly.
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