Violet Hunt

I HAVE my best clothes on;

A card case in my hand,

And pain in my heart.

Some one, before I started

Out from the happy home,

Kissed me

On the unhappy eyes with his unhappy mouth,

And said, “Go out—have cheer—and see your friends.”

The world goes on although we burn in hell.

Across the rutty roads that lie in ridges,

Striped and barred like the back of a beaten woman,

Past windows blinded with lace—

So one shall not look in

On five, ten, or a dozen covert lives

Like his, like mine, like ours—

For all we do the best we can

Under the complicated curse.

Past blighted corners of streets,

Where the winds of loneliness take me and twist me

Like a rag sodden with tears,

Forcing me to the shelter of strong houses

Where at least a door will open if I ring…..

I hope no one will be in

For if they are kind to me I shall cry.

The door opens on Chinoiseries.

The mild white maid with many frills

Stands expectant.

There are curtains at her back

Hot and red—no gray.

It is the East in Cromwell Road,

The East where man is polygamous

And without reproach.

They were in and not too kind….

The kettle hissed and I drank;

Then a parrot shrieked and I fled.

And I am back in the street.

Stranded……

There are miles and miles of paving stones

Rectangular, with round bosses for the coal cellars.

They converge to a vanishing point

Before they turn and hit me….

There is a cab, and home!

Home? What home?

The streets are kinder.