I put my easel on the roof of a skyscraper.

I painted a long while and called it a day’s work.

The people on a corner swarmed and the traffic cop’s whistle never let up all afternoon.

They were the same as bugs, many bugs on their way—

Those people on the go or at a standstill;

And the traffic cop a spot of blue, a splinter of brass,

Where the black tides ran around him

And he kept the street. I painted a long while

And called it a day’s work.