Work in the City, Sleep in the Country: A Commuter Saga
by ERNEST KROLL
BUOYED on the morning tide of people
Up, and lifted higher —
Fractions closer the sun —
The suburbs dweller, signing in,
Toils at a point in the air.
He drinks much water from the tap,
Inspects the sky for rain.
While morning climbs to zenith.
He buckles to affairs,
Talking to other toilers
At other points in the air.
Shortly before the noon is full
On the streets, he falters
And takes his hat, and
Rides to the ground to lunch.
The bells above may ring for him,
But now, in a private hour,
He idles, sorting thought from thought.
Piecing out the morning’s meaning
Summing up to nought.
He rises from the scraps of nooning,
He walks out in the light.
He leaves the singing pavements
And the cinema cashier,
The precincts of the nickel shrined
Within the lighted turnstile
And in the beggar’s mind,
While high in heaven drones,
Invisible, the herald, writing,
Proclaiming the Apocalypse,
The advent of the better yet,
The purer still, the cheaper far pop soda
In letters of white cloud,
Now, in the shadowed sweep of two,
He looks a little sadly on those things
Which still will load him forth from sleep
A thousand mornings on a suburbs bed
To labor in the air.
While sunlight slides along the world,
He stares upon his fingernails
At scenes unbroken by the balance sheet,
The telephone, the correspondence
Long drawn out and failing.
Night and the quitting hour,
And still so little done,
And all that thought’s solemnity.
Briefly, so, he sorrows
But takes his hat, although, and goes
Intrepidly down the air,
Leaving his burden hung aloft,
Craving alone the mind swept clean.
The spirit clean released.
Happy at a bar, he fondles
One clear draft of peace,
And, warming, toes the golden rail.
He doubts his visage in the mirror,
Thinking it may be another,
Turns a softened eye about.
So, he drinks,
Then he goes, untrammeled, on,
Somewhat lighter in the head,
Somewhat freer in the tread,
Buoyed on the evening tide of people out,
The old way home.
Up, and lifted higher —
Fractions closer the sun —
The suburbs dweller, signing in,
Toils at a point in the air.
He drinks much water from the tap,
Inspects the sky for rain.
While morning climbs to zenith.
He buckles to affairs,
Talking to other toilers
At other points in the air.
Shortly before the noon is full
On the streets, he falters
And takes his hat, and
Rides to the ground to lunch.
The bells above may ring for him,
But now, in a private hour,
He idles, sorting thought from thought.
Piecing out the morning’s meaning
Summing up to nought.
He rises from the scraps of nooning,
He walks out in the light.
He leaves the singing pavements
And the cinema cashier,
The precincts of the nickel shrined
Within the lighted turnstile
And in the beggar’s mind,
While high in heaven drones,
Invisible, the herald, writing,
Proclaiming the Apocalypse,
The advent of the better yet,
The purer still, the cheaper far pop soda
In letters of white cloud,
Now, in the shadowed sweep of two,
He looks a little sadly on those things
Which still will load him forth from sleep
A thousand mornings on a suburbs bed
To labor in the air.
While sunlight slides along the world,
He stares upon his fingernails
At scenes unbroken by the balance sheet,
The telephone, the correspondence
Long drawn out and failing.
Night and the quitting hour,
And still so little done,
And all that thought’s solemnity.
Briefly, so, he sorrows
But takes his hat, although, and goes
Intrepidly down the air,
Leaving his burden hung aloft,
Craving alone the mind swept clean.
The spirit clean released.
Happy at a bar, he fondles
One clear draft of peace,
And, warming, toes the golden rail.
He doubts his visage in the mirror,
Thinking it may be another,
Turns a softened eye about.
So, he drinks,
Then he goes, untrammeled, on,
Somewhat lighter in the head,
Somewhat freer in the tread,
Buoyed on the evening tide of people out,
The old way home.