This is the cripple’s hour on Seventh Avenue
when they emerge, the two o’clock night-walkers,
the cane, the crutch, and the black suit.
Oblique early mirages send the eyes:
night dramatized in puddles, the animal glare
that makes indignity, makes the brute.
Not enough effort in the sky for morning.
No color, pantomime of blackness, landscape
where the third layer black is always phantom
Here comes the fat man, the attractive dog-chested
legless—and the wounded infirm king
with nobody to use him as a saint.
Now they parade in the dark, the cripples’ hour
to the drugstore, the bar, the newspaper-stand,
past kissing shadows on a window-shade to
colors of alcohol, reflectors, light.
Wishing for trial to prove their innocence
with one straight simple look:
the look to set this avenue in its colors—
two o’clock on a black street instead of
wounds, mysteries, fables, kings
in a kingdom of cripples.
Muriel Rukeyser's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Seventh Avenue by Muriel Rukeyser )
- MY WAYطريقي, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Genes, jeans!, Edward Kofi Louis
- Ticking Over, Yvonne Rautenbach
- In A Confused World, Edward Kofi Louis
- MY WAY, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- You need someone, hasmukh amathalal
- Organized team, hasmukh amathalal
- I Am Weird and I Am Happy, Rohit Sapra
- Beloved Alice (Square Sonnet I), Rohan Nath
- Meeting Room 13, Edward Kofi Louis