134. The Noon Hour She sits... «Chicago Poems»
robot8 октября 2017134. The Noon Hour She sits in the dust at the walls And makes cigars, Bending at the bench With fingers wage-anxious, Changing her sweat for the day’s pay.
Now the noon hour has come, And she leans with her bare arms On the window-sill over the river, Leans and feels at her throat Cool-moving things out of the free open ways:
At her throat and eyes and nostrils The touch and the blowing cool Of great free ways beyond the walls.
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