Sunday Afternoon
Packs of houses squat along rotten streets, Around whose hump a gray sun shines. A perfumed, half crazy little poodle Casts exhausted eyes at the big world. In a window a boy catches flies. A badly soiled baby gets angry. On the horizon a train moves through windy meadows: Slowly paints a long thick stroke. Like typewriters hackney hooves clatter. A dust-covered, noisy athletic club comes along. Brutal shouts stream from bars for coachmen. Yet fine bells mix with them. On the fairgrounds where athletes wrestle, Everything is dark and indistinct. A barrel organ howls and scullery maids sing. A man is smashing a rotting woman.
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"Packs of houses squat along rotten streets,..."
"Sunday Afternoon" is a quintessential example of Alfred Lichtenstein's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...