LABOR: In Passaic

Through the dusk, down a soiled street, beside a factory wall, a file of men were marching. Their clothes were the color of the wall. Their faces were the color of the dusk. They walked without animation, each to his own tune as if they were following a drum that had been silenced. Where the wall ended, a row of policemen made a stiff blue dam across the street, leaving a gap just wide enough for the passage of these twilight marchers, right foot, left foot, shoulder...

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