II
Thompson’s Lunch Room—Grand Central Station
Study in Whites
Wax-white—Floor, ceiling, walls.Ivory shadowsOver the pavementPolished to cream surfacesBy constant sweeping.The big room is coloured like the petalsOf a great magnolia,And has a patinaOf flower bloomWhich makes it shine dimlyUnder the electric lamps.Chairs are ranged in rowsLike sepia seedsWaiting fulfilment.The chalk-white spot of a cook’s capMoves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall—Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blowThrough the wavering uncertainty of steam.Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections,Ice-green carboys, shifting—greener, bluer—with the jar of moving water.Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glassRearing snow-peaks of chipped sugarAbove the lighthouse-shaped castorsOf grey pepper and grey-white salt.Grey-white placards: “Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters”:Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines.Dropping on the white counter like horn notesThrough a web of violins,The flat yellow lights of oranges,The cube-red splashes of apples,In high plated ‘epergnes’.The electric clock jerks every half-minute:“Coming!—Past!”“Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,”Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily.A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair.Two rice puddings and a salmon saladAre pushed over the counter;The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them.A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone,And the sound throws across the roomSharp, invisible zigzagsOf silver.