T.S. Eliot

morning at the window

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens, and along the trampled edges of the street I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids sprouting despondently at area gates. The brown waves of fog toss up to me twisted faces from the bottom of the street, and tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts an aimless smile that hovers in the air and vanishes along the level of the roofs.

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