Hatless, in mocking whiteface, Carl Schurz stands,
tricked by the tempest out of blackest bronze.

His basalt Negroes limp along their frieze:
Bare chested, fetters broken, they take liberties

Bewildered now to be so unalike,
Who were for one another from the start
The kind of perfect double that we all

This 50-ish frump, rat’s-nest brittle hair
             frittered by stress;
scalp daily raked to amend one last damsel flare

2 motors flaring stoked their raucous joke;
twin fans, reversed, sucked up stiff acrid smoke.

           At forty, she’s had it, slow to go, can’t quit the scene,
                    still aching for dressing-room noise,
                    one-night-stands, divine chorus-boys.

Patsy’s in by 5; Steve and Spike since dawn.
           Ten regulars by 7, all set,
                    crowding their cabin.

Owns his own cab. Not that ole 2-ton Mack-truck.
            Ageless, balding, pushing 60,—
but swears he still has all the luck.

The room is too small; viscous Diana
stands with her hair in lamp, tassels

shade her in halos like comic book

I'm sitting on a bench at One Hundred and Fifteenth
and Riverside Drive, with my books beside me,
early for my lesson in Chinese

Down the long curving walk you trudge to the street,
Stoop-shouldered in defeat, a cardboard suitcase
In each hand. Gerda, don’t leave! the child cries