I KNOW a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a
voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble
in January.
He dangles herring before prospective customers evincing
a joy identical with that of Pavlowa dancing.
His face is that of a man terribly glad to be selling fish,
terribly glad that God made fish, and customers to
whom he may call his wares, from a pushcart.

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1 Comment

  1. COOPER says:

    OMG THIS WAS THE BEST POEM I HAVE EVER READ THE INTULECTUAL SPEAKING OF THE AUTHOR JUST THRILLED ME.

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