Louis Simpson’s speaker remembers a nearly empty part of New York, a district of small factories where whole blocks feel abandoned. One morning, he was in a hotel there with a girl, and they watched men and women working at machines in the building opposite. Occasionally one of the workers looked up. Years later, the speaker returns to the memory: whatever those workers made has worn out, and he himself is fifteen years older. The recollection turns into a quiet self-reckoning. He says he has spoiled his chances—through laziness, secret meetings, a life kept hidden. The mood is melancholy and a little lonely. He seems to envy the steady, visible work of the factory employees, while his own life feels scattered and private.
Summer Morning — Summary
There are whole blocks in New York Where no one lives — A district of small factories.
And there's a hotel; one morning When I was there with a girl We saw in the window opposite Men and women working at their machines. Now and then one looked up.
Toys, hardware — whatever they made, It's been worn out.
I'm fifteen years older myself — Bad years and good. So I have spoiled my chances. For what? Sheer laziness, The thrill of an assignation, My life that I hold in secret.