Letters she left to clutter up the desk
Burned in the general gutter when the maid
Came in to do the room and take the risk
Of slipping off the necklace round her head.
Laundry she left to clutter up the floor
Hung to rachitic skeletons of girls
Who worked the bars, or labored up the stair
To crown her blowsy ribbons on their curls.
Lovers she left to clutter up the town
Mourned in the chilly morgue and went away,
All but the husbands sneaking up and down
The stairs of that apartment house all day.
What were they looking for? the cold pretense
Of lamentation offered in a stew?
A note? a gift? a shred of evidence
To love when there was nothing else to do?
Or did they rise to weep for that unheard—
Of love, whose misery cries, and does not care
Whether or not the madam hears a word
Or skinny children watch the trodden stair?
Whether or not, how could she love so many,
Then turn away to die as though for none?
I saw the last offer a child a penny
To creep outside and see the cops were gone.