People Who Must
I painted on the roof of a skyscraper.
I painted a long while and called it a day’s work.
The people on the corner swarmed and the traffic cop’s whistle never let up all afternoon.
They were the same as bugs, many bugs on their way—
These people on the go or at a standstill;
And the traffic cop a spot of blue, a splinter of brass,
Where the black tids ran around him
And he kept the street. I painted a long while
And called it a day’s work.
