Reality

I stand at noon upon the heated flags
  At the bleached crossing of two streets, and dream
  With brain scarce conscious now the hurrying stream
  Of noonday passengers is done. Two hags
  Stand at an open doorway piled with bags
  And jabber hideously. Just at their feet
  A small, half-naked child screams in the street,
  A blind man yonder, a mere hunch of rags,
  Keeps the scant shadow of the eaves, and scowls,
  Counting his coppers. Through the open glare
  Thunders an empty wagon, from whose trail
  A lean dog shoots into the startled square,
  Wildly revolves and soothes his hapless tail,
  Piercing the noon with intermittent howls.