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.