IV. Fire Engine
Such afternoons the buses are crowded into line like elephants in a circusparade. Morningside Heights to Washington Square, Penn Station to Grant's Tomb. Parlorsnakes and flappers joggle hugging downtown uptown, hug joggling gray square after gray square, until they see the new moon giggling over Weehawken and feel the gusty wind of a dead Sunday blowing dust in their faces, dust of a typsy twilight.
THEY are walking up the Mall in Central Park.
"Looks like he had a boil on his neck," says Ellen in front of the statue of Burns.
"Ah," whispers Harry Goldweiser with a fat-throated sigh, "but he was a great poet."
She is walking in her wide hat in her pale loose dress that the wind now and then presses against her legs and arms, silkily, swishily walking in the middle of
