Compelled by calamity's magnet br They loiter and stare as if the house br Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought br Some scandal might any minute ooze br From a smoke-choked closet into light; br No deaths, no prodigious injuries br Glut these hunters after an old meat, br Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies. br br Mother Medea in a green smock br Moves humbly as any housewife through br Her ruined apartments, taking stock br Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery: br Cheated of the pyre and the rack, br The crowd sucks her last tear and turns away.