Crossroads Poem by James Mills

A Sunday night, Nineteen Forty.
Holy - unholy congregate
at the four ways,
Just to foot the night,
to reel and play and flirt.

Midges feast on freckled arms
and heaving breasts,
Tasting, in warm blood,
Summer's ripening.

Girls dance with girls - for the while,
until portered men saunter that length
elbowing in on the sweet, sweet air.

Melodeon, mouth organ,
dry slap of hands,
soft duststep footfalls
syncopate the tangled pairs
down the bush-green hours
till past the blowsy midnight.

Some slip the reels,
heat and cool
in fragrant grass,
Nineteen Forty frank and free.

Only war and work and
pale babies with polio,
will trip these dancing girls,
these bright boys of Summer
who come and go on music,
and the night,
and footing
at the Crossroads.