The Traffic On the Busy Street

The traffic on the busy street All night through Harlem roars The haunted sound of dusky feet The Gentle tapping at closed doors Some eyes may meet the face and smile Too boldly with the painted mask The undraped innocense of child The curtain drawn in acrid flask I turn from them and fled the scene The too familiar pure eyes My mother's children in farce sheen In a black world my soul despise The staggering men, apartments Haunted with penury and death Condemning tongues, distant judgments That taste not the fire and regret Mere children these amidst the plot The superficial argument Spending fortunes to buy the rot Of their eternal discontent The traffic on the busy street All night through Harlem roars The haunted sounds of dusky feet The longing hearts for tropic shores.