Comments about Arlene Pollack
I hear the footsteps of the ragman fall.
Oh, mama, the courtyard's cold and dark!
His fingers point to where I sit
Cash clothes! Cash clothes!
His voice croaks like a broken heart
Oh mama, close my eyes
To madness. I shall write a sonnet
To the hapless poor. The wind has blown
The ragman's bundle down
And strewn its contents. Mama, call to me:
Make pretext to demand of me
An ode to happiness; a song so sweet
That all that lies about the ragman's feet
Is hidden from my eyes.