The Ghetto V

As I sit in my little fifth-floor room--Bare,Save for bed and chair,And coppery stainsLeft by seeping rainsOn the low ceilingAnd green plaster walls,Where when night fallsGolden lady-bugsCome out of their holes,And roaches, sepia-brown, consort...I hear bells pealingOut of the gray church at Rutgers street,Holding its high-flung cross above the Ghetto,And, one floor down across the court,The parrot screaming:Vorwärts... Vorwärts...

The parrot frowsy-white,Everlastingly swingingOn its iron bar.

A little old woman,With a wig of smooth black hairGummed about her shrunken brows,Comes sometimes on the fire escape.An old stooped mother,The left shoulder lowWith that uneven droopiness that women knowWho have suckled many young...Yet I have seen no other than the parrot there.

I watch her mornings as she shakes her rugsFeebly, with futile reachAnd fingers without clutch.Her thews are slackAnd curved the ruined backAnd flesh empurpled like old meat,Yet each conspiresTo feed those guttering firesWith which her eyes are quick.

On Friday nightsHer candles signalInfinite fine raysTo other windows,Coupling other lights,Linking the tenementsLike an endless prayer.

She seems less lonely than the birdThat day by day about the dismal houseScreams out his frenzied word...That night by night--If a dog yelpsOr a cat yawlsOr a sick child whines,Or a door screaks on its hinges,Or a man and woman fight--Sends his cry above the huddled roofs:Vorwärts... Vorwärts...