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Amy Lowell - Thompson’s Lunch Room—Grand Central Station
Work rating: Low

STUDY IN WHITES 
Wax-white— 
Floor, ceiling, walls. 
Ivory shadows 
Over the pavement 
Polished to cream surfaces 
By constant sweeping. 
The big room is coloured like the petals 
Of a great magnolia, 
And has a patina 
Of flower bloom 
Which makes it shine dimly 
Under the electric lamps. 
Chairs are ranged in rows 
Like sepia seeds 
Waiting fulfilment. 
The chalk-white spot of a cook’s cap 
Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall— 
Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow 
Thru 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 glass 
Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar 
Above the lighthouse-shaped castors 
Of 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 notes 
Through a web of violins, 
The flat yellow lights of oranges, 
The cube-red splashes of apples, 
In high plated épergnes. 
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 salad 
Are 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 room 
Sharp, invisible zigzags 
Of silver.
Source
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