Oh Ruelle, you street between streets,
swept between the affairs of working streets
you long to feel the footsteps of,
what right do I have to tell you what to want?
You with your wrought-iron stairs
and clotheslines of drying fare,
whose snowbanks are not cleared until
summer flowers spill over the rink-sides,
who peer into the street from lowered elbows
to watch the wiping clear of brows,
how can I tell you that you don’t need their affairs,
that you are more open when you are closed,
that you are tender cartilage between working joints,
and that every working street needs its ruelle
so that every commotion may have its coming to rest?
Maybe I am selfish. Rest with me now, and not long,
for the day is done, and I come to you
with more important affairs.