The way a grim old
hobgoblin
with his small hawkish
pushcart
shuffle rambling
past me—day
after
day, and its
little silver grails
in rows
going
jangling—enchanted and
glinting
in daylight so
bright
as to widely
outshine—
and loudly
outblast—any
shamefaced ambition
he may
have been having
to peddle any
ice cream—to a fully grown man.
