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 house maids

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.