On the Birth of Good & Evil during the Long Winter of ‘28When the streetcar stalled on Joy Road,the conductor finished his coffee, puffedinto his overcoat, and went to phone in.The Hungarian punch press operator wakenedalone, 7000 miles from home, pulled downhis orange cap and set out. If he sawthe winter birds scuffling in the cinders,if he felt this was the dawn of a new day,he didn’t let on. Where the sidewalkswere unshovelled, he stamped on, raisinghis galoshes a little higher with each step.I came as close as I dared and could hearonly the little gasps as the cold enteredthe stained refectory of the breath.I could see by the way the blue tears squeezedfrom the dark of the eyes, by the wayhis moustache first dampened and then froze,that as he turned down Dexter Boulevard,he considered the hosts of the dead,and nearest among them, his mother-in-law,who darkened his table for twenty-seven yearsand bruised his wakings. He considered howbefore she went off in the winter of ‘27she had knitted this cap, knitted so slowlythat Christmas came and went, and now he couldforgive her at last for the twin wool lappetsthat closed perfectly on a tiny metal snapbeneath the chin and for making all of it orange.Philip Levine 

On the Birth of Good & Evil during the Long Winter of ‘28

When the streetcar stalled on Joy Road,
the conductor finished his coffee, puffed
into his overcoat, and went to phone in.
The Hungarian punch press operator wakened
alone, 7000 miles from home, pulled down
his orange cap and set out. If he saw
the winter birds scuffling in the cinders,
if he felt this was the dawn of a new day,
he didn’t let on. Where the sidewalks
were unshovelled, he stamped on, raising
his galoshes a little higher with each step.
I came as close as I dared and could hear
only the little gasps as the cold entered
the stained refectory of the breath.
I could see by the way the blue tears squeezed
from the dark of the eyes, by the way
his moustache first dampened and then froze,
that as he turned down Dexter Boulevard,
he considered the hosts of the dead,
and nearest among them, his mother-in-law,
who darkened his table for twenty-seven years
and bruised his wakings. He considered how
before she went off in the winter of ‘27
she had knitted this cap, knitted so slowly
that Christmas came and went, and now he could
forgive her at last for the twin wool lappets
that closed perfectly on a tiny metal snap
beneath the chin and for making all of it orange.

Philip Levine