Morning at the Window

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,	
And along the trampled edges of the street	
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids	
Sprouting despondently at area gates.	
 
The brown waves of fog toss up to me	        
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,	
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts	
An aimless smile that hovers in the air	
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.