MY STOCKESMAN'S ALLY
Ever at loose in a Philadelphia alley, I want
to find goodness in a patch of historic ground.
Here is Christ-Church; good enough now. Not
so far off, Ben Franklin's grave, with all those
dimes and quarters. It's a far-different world
from the one I first saw and examined - my
Manchecker gloves are battling the uncivil
cold, a Betsy Ross stamp on my letter.
-
I haven't any enemies and I haven't any friends.
All are just purloined co-habitors of a wild
and running furnace - sun-crazed when
burning hot, and ice-to-bones when not.
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