People Who Must

I PAINTED on the roof of a skyscraper. I painted a long while and called it a day's work. The people on a corner swarmed and the traffic cop's whistle never let up all afternoon. They were the same as bugs, many bugs on their way — Those people on the go or at a standstill ; And the traffic cop a spot of blue, a splinter of brass, Where the black tides ran around him And he kept the street. I painted a long while And called it a day's work.