Book V

It was still hot in Washington, that September, Hot in the city, hot in the White House rooms, Desiccate heat, dry as a palmleaf fan, That makes hot men tuck cotton handkerchiefs Between their collars and their sweaty necks, And Northern girls look limp at half-past-four, Waiting the first cool breath that will not come For hours yet. The sentinel on post Clicks back and forth, stuffed in his sweltering coat, And dreams about brown bottles of cold beer Deep in a cellar. In the crowded Bureaus The pens move slow, the damp clerks watch the clock. Women in houses take their corsets off And stifle in loose gowns. They could lie down But when they touch the bed, the bed feels hot, And there are things to do. The men will want Hot food when they come back from work. They sigh And turn, with dragging feet, to the hot kitchens.