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their sale gives the collector an extra income …

which is the reason he gathers with such zest.

Rush hour again, and again all the pulling,

the labor involved is something grueling.

Homeward bound the office workers speed,

clic-clacking along on the mechanical steed,

which is the worse wear in the daily contest.

Peacefully now the train ambles along,

quavering a most dissonant song,

while in its belly snoringly sleep

some of the students from Bowerie prep.

Heads hung on their chest.

I alight from the train weary and bewildered,

and view the return trip with the utmost of dread.

For tomorrow and tomorrow, and the day after that,

today's battle will be repeated tit for tat,

as the train travels through the umbrageous steel forest.

Forward noble chariot of steel,

forward let roll your wheel.

Carry your passengers both big and small,

to their home, their work, or their ball,

and woe be unto him who leaves you unblest.

Woe unto him who leaves you unblest,

as you travel through the umbrageous steel forest.

A WOMAN CRIES IN HER SLEEP

The night was quiet; the stillness, the late hour, the dormant wind created a vacuum effect. Now a sound. The powdery snow crunched beneath the feet of a lone figure hastening past the silent, snow-capped steps of the dark brownstones. The man's shadow skimmed out over the white surface of the sidewalk, getting smaller as he approached the street lamp, then expanding again as he strode past it into the darkness of the valley between the lamps. It was cold, that cold, that clear, crisp cold that exhilarates the body, that made one want to fill one's lungs with all of this clean air.

Carl breathed in fully of the fresh air about him and held his breath with his lungs filled to an overwhelmed capacity of cleanness. He exhaled, and a wisp of steam escaped from his mouth. Oddly enough, even in this wonderful environment of freshness, Carl still faintly detected Ruth's perfume. He had been so close to her, to that fragrance that seemed always to hover about her; he could smell it in her hair, on her skin, on her bedclothes, … perhaps it was his imagination conjuring the sensation of her fragrance. He sniffed the lapel of his coat to determine if the perfume accidently embedded itself there when he kissed her good-night. His lapel smelled like moist wool.

Funny
, he thought,
I swear I still smell that perfume
. He continued his pace.
What a great night
, now remembering Ruth. The scent must be imagination. “I should have had the night attendant drive me home; damn garage is too far from the house”, he murmured.

The wind, suddenly and without warning, arose from the ground violently, and swirled upward and around, carrying with it a bitter lashing cold that seemed to pass through Carl's body. He bundled the lapels of his overcoat together, and leaned into the wind. It began to flail him, his face, his ears, it beat against his eyelids until he had to close them, opening them only blinkingly to see if he were headed straight. Finally he reached his stoop and bounded up the stairs over the white mantle from the skies. A renegade wind swept down quickly from the roof of the house, hugging the building, viciously lashing out at and carrying with it, Carl's hat. He whipped his hand up to grab it; too late. It was torn from his head, and twisting through the air, thrown down on the sidewalk.

“Son of a bitch”, he murmured, “just when you're freezing your ass off”, he said to himself, annoyed, as he trudged down to the foot of the steps, picked up the hat, and hastened up the steps again, and through the door.

He walked quietly down the flight of steps leading into the sitting rom so as not to disturb Ginger. Ginger was Carl's wife. A most loving wife was she, as he was a loving husband. He walked lightly not so that she would not find out he was coming home late, but that she would not be disturbed. Ginger didn't mind him coming in late, or even that he might be out with other women. One thing about this marriage, he made sure it was understood, that each of them must have their own friends, their own diversion. They understood each other perfectly, … and they understood their marriage perfectly, and no stilted or stagnant ideas of propriety ran their lives … quite the opposite. They ran their own lives and decided for themselves just what was proper, and what was not.

Carl walked slowly and carefully, his eyes being unaccustomed to the dark—especially coming in from the snow outside. As he neared the candle that was left on the table in the living room as a night-light for him, he moved more easily. He gazed into the smoked mirrors on the wall behind the table, and with the complementary light from below flickering on his face, framed on the bottom by a loosened tie, and on top by imperceptibly disheveled hair, he thought how lucky women in general were that he existed. Most other men were not even a match for him. His looks stunned, his charm and tenderness overwhelmed.
Ah Ruth, you lovely, sensual woman, you … how lucky you have been tonight
, thought Carl to himself.

Looking up he noticed in the mirror the reflection of the mobile design, the Christmas one, with colored balls and holly dangling from its suspended wires, was twirling, vibrating, twisting around, just as it did when he passed it and disturbed the air that surrounded it when he passed it on his way to the office every morning. A quick shock of air filled the room as the front door banged against its frame.

Carl twirled. “Who's there?” he called into the darkness. No answer. Peering blindly, he repeated his question to the room that seemed to close in upon him. Again there was no answer. Cautiously, not knowing what awaited him, who or what was there in the dark, he slid his hand slowly over the wall toward where he knew the light switch to be. He felt the switch, flipped it with trepidation and anticipation. The normal pieces of squat low furniture, the vivid pastels, were all that greeted him. It had sounded like someone going through the doorway, but who would it have been. Ginger? He walked back to the bedroom and flicked on the light. Ginger's head lifted from her pillow. Squinting, she opened one eye, firmly holding the other closed against the glare of the light.

“I just heard the front door bang shut. I thought you went out”, said Carl.

She smirked annoyance. “Yes, I did”.

“That's funny”. Carl turned back into the sitting room. He walked through the room, up the stairs, opened the front door, and looked outside. The street was empty and white. Turning to go in, he saw many footprints in the snow on the steps, many more than he would have made walking over the purely driven snow.
It must have been someone
, he thought.
I heard the door bang
, … and now the footsteps, the mobile moving, as if someone had passed by and gone out. A faint gleam of suspicion flickered into bloom within him.

“Ginger, baby”, he called in a somewhat knowing way as he walked back to the bedroom, “are you sure you didn't hear anyone?”

“Course I'm sure. You were the only one I heard when you came in.”

“You heard me come in, but didn't hear anything after that?” he asked doubtingly.

“No!” said Ginger, exasperated.

“That's strange. The door slammed, the mobile was moving, there were more than one set of footprints on the stoop and there weren't any before I got here”, he said sarcastically. “Perhaps your lover was a little hasty in his departure, eh?”, said Carl, jokingly serious. This flickering suspicion began to obsess his thoughts. He didn't mind her having friends and all that, but an affair, … and in his own bed. He slyly studied more closely Ginger and the bed, as he leisurely took off his jacket. The bed was completely disarranged and rumpled as if there had been much activity thereon. He now meticulously observed the room as he began to undress, feeling that he was shrewdly uncovering a poorly concealed affair.

“You'd better tell your friend to be more careful next time”, said Carl. “You almost got caught”, he said, affecting detached amusement.

“What in God's name are you talking about now? Can't you just shut up and let me get some sleep. I haven't been able to sleep all night”.

“He must be pretty good, hanh?”

“Yes, he's very good”, said Ginger sarcastically, trying to agree with Carl, to silence him, “so much better than you, in fact, that we were making love without a rest all night”.

“Are you serious about this?' Carl said, suddenly outraged. “I mean, I don't like fooling around about this sort of thing …”

“Then shut up and stop being such a child. I haven't been able to sleep all night, and now you come home and start some nonsense about my lover being here … grow up. Do you think I'm crazy to have someone here?”

“I heard the door slam, … there are footsteps on the stoop—come out and see them yourself, and you tell me it's nonsense. You've got a hell of a nerve, you, you, goddamn tramp, bringing somebody here while I'm out”.

“Why you nervy son of a bitch”, screamed Ginger angrily. “You rotten, hypocritical bastard … to stand there and call me a tramp”, her voice was reaching an emotional peak. Tears began to well up in her eyes. “You, big understanding man, so mature, such a great lover, … ‘we must all have our own friends, dear'”, she said mimicking his words in a cutting, invective way, “‘you know, to sort of keep up with the styles. This way we'll always be interesting to each other'”.

“I told you we should have our own friends”, Carl said defensively, “but I don't intend to have you in bed with all sorts of guys, … my own bed, … what the hell do you think I am a fool, … cuckolded in my own house?”

“Well, if you spent more time in your own house, maybe you wouldn't have so many stupid suspicions. Come home once in a while instead of taking some of your little chippie friends to bed. Where the hell were you tonight?”

“I was out with Tom Jordan and Billy Gregor …”

“You're a goddamn liar and you know it. Don't hand me that nonsense. You still smell of perfume, you dope”, she said groundlessly.

Carl wasn't sure he smelled of perfume; he had thought he smelled the scent about himself. His consciousness of guilt and Ginger's unwitting but ever so deft thrust put Carl in a defensively uncomfortable situation.

“There are other women in the world you know. We were at the Club Lido and we met a couple of girls from Billy's office. They sat and had a drink with us, and that's about it. So don't try to shift the blame to me. You had somebody here, didn't you? Didn't you?” asked Carl, who seemed prone only to an affirmative answer. Trust between men and women is a very incomprehensible thing. A man feeling a woman has done wrong will not completely believe her if she says she didn't, … he will always have a lurking suspicion he has been lied to, … and if the woman says she has done him wrong, he'll believe her and be completely crushed. Trust is something that has to come from within. In order to trust another, we have to trust ourselves first.

“Look, you fool”, said Ginger in an enforcedly calm, but nonetheless emotional way. “I was here all night, tossing and turning, trying to sleep …” She began to cry softly. “You were out running around, and you tell me that someone was here? You miserable bastard, you rotten, rotten”, Ginger slumped on the bed, crying vehemently.

“Now, Ginger, … it's just that I came in and the door slammed, and the footprints, and the mobile, and all, … well, what's a guy supposed to think? I mean …”

“If you don't believe me, ask Mary”, cried Ginger, lifting her head. “I called her up to come over and stay with me for a while because I couldn't sleep. Call her up and ask her who was here. Go on, call her … call her”, sobbed Ginger as her head slumped down on the bed and she cried all the more in her pillow.

“Baby …”, said Carl entreatingly as he crossed the room and sat on the bed next to Ginger. He stroked her hair. “It's just that … well, it's just that I'm so afraid someone will steal you away from me. I'm sorry I said what I did. I didn't mean it. I just jumped to a conclusion. I'm sorry baby. Please stop crying”.

But Ginger's crying persisted. “You miserable bastard, you miserable bastard”, she sobbed over and over. Carl began to feel shameful and terribly childish.

After about thirty minutes her crying subsided into a whimper and Carl lifted her into the bed, and slid in next to her. “I'm sorry, baby, please forgive me”.

“It's all right, … forget it”, Ginger said with that nasal quality that comes after lamentations.

Carl switched off the light, and put his head back on the pillow. From the living room came the faint flickering yellow glow of the candle that he forgot to extinguish when he came in. He folded back the covers, slid his feet into his slippers and scuffed into the living room. The wind that had begun to wail sent blasts against the window panes and door, banging them in place. Hanging above the candle, the mobile was still twirling as it had been when he came in. He couldn't comprehend the reason for the movement. It was dangling and turning as if someone had brushed into it. He looked around, but there was no one. Putting his hand up, he stopped the motion of the mobile, and when it was perfectly still, loosened his grip on it. Immediately it began to slowly twirl again. He put his hand up to stop it again and as he did, he felt the current of warm air rising from the flame of the candle. Now he realized that it was the heat waves, the expanding of the warmed air, that was moving the mobile. Slowly, he blew out the candle, the instigator, the fuse for his powder keg of guilty suspicion, and walked back toward the bedroom.

As Carl entered the room, he heard Ginger softly whimpering. She was crying again. Carl slipped into the bed and whispered, “I'm sorry baby”. He slid his arm around her shoulder, but she twisted away. Perhaps, he thought it would be better to let her cry. It is so difficult to argue with the flowing tears of a woman. He turned up and stared at the greyish, purplish ceiling, … and as he dozed off, he could hear the continued sobbing of his wife as she lay next to him.