Macadam, gun-grey as the tunny’s belt,
Leaps from Far Rockaway to Golden Gate:
Listen! the miles a hurdy-gurdy grinds—
Down gold arpeggios mile on mile unwinds.
Times earlier, when you hurried off to school,
—It is the same hour though a later day—
You walked with Pizarro in a copybook,
And Cortes rode up, reining tautly in—
Firmly as coffee grips the taste, —and away!
There was Priscilla’s cheek close in the wind,
And Captain Smith, all beard and certainty,
And Rip Van Winkle bowing by the way, —
“Is this Sleepy Hollow, friend—?” And he—
And Rip forgot the office hours
and he forgot the pay
Van Winkle sweeps a tenement
way down on Avenue A, —
The grind-organ says… Remember, remember
The cinder pile at the end of the backyard
Where we stoned the family of young
Garter snakes under… And the monoplanes
We launched—with paper wings and twisted
Rubber bands… Recall—recal