Lower East Side Poem

By Sarah Brice

The stomping of horses hoofs,

that you can barely hear because of all of the pushcarts,

screaming,

crying,

and people trying to sell their goods.

Ladies rush into work,

scared that they will get yelled at for being late.

The noisy cobblestone grounds filled with immigrants.

Yelps from the workers at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.

I’m sleepy and tired,

and I am sure everybody feels the same.

Everybody is bored of doing the same every day over and over and over again.

The familiar smell of raw fish.

I am so used to walking to work that I could do it with my eyes closed if I wanted to.

I wish I could work at the luxurious Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.

As I look into the horizon, it just goes on and on and on with people, Pushcarts and more people.