How Frank Marshall Davis poem 47th street might be typologically linked with Obama’s poem “Pop”? 1. The mentioning of Orphan Annie and Popeye (Anne is Obama’s mother’s name) 2. A Green bus that snorts 3. Spotted soul of a straining street 4. A canal flowing in Mathematically precise channels 5. Impending death of a woman So what do we have in Obama’s “Pop” poem?: 1. The Pop & Popeye comparison. All throughout the Pop poem Obama several times talks about his eyes. 2. A Green young man who pulls out a mirror from under a seat he has been saving. This is an allusion to a line of cocaine to be snorted through the nose. 3. A spot on the brain that may be squeezed out 4. Twice he states Pop “Switches channels” 5. Pop recites an old poem before his mother died Some how some way my book Poor Dre’s Almanac was hacked into and this information was edited out. I’ve now updated my book to put all of this information back in. I’m glad they did this because I re-read both poems and found more information to link up. With that said I’m posting Frank Marshall Davis poem 47th street in its full text: 47th Street By Frank Marshall Davis From hollow backs Of uneasy packhorse buses Whinnying nervously At 47th street street intersections In Chicago’s Congo Caucasian faces peer momentarily In curious contempt Then turn back to “Orphan Annie”, “Popeye” News of the juiciest murders Or bargain basement sales Unconsciously sure of superiority Within furnished apartment minds As green buses snort From gasoline spurs Then gallop on. But a new moon Lingering longer Sees the spotted soul Of this straining street I have watched a new moon crawl Like a pale and eager child To a lean building And rest its white face On the creased dark edge Then look in platinum wonder Upon the restless canal Of 47th street below Flowing in mathematically precise channels Between cement walks. Besides the beds of the deathly sick Like an aged angel Bathing souls with purple prayers Refusing to leave before life left And the town that had known her Only as a name and gray-haired virgin Now praised her unselfishness Shared its most fragile secrets And erected its new hospital in her honor But it was not for these things That Samantha Wilson labored Knowing death eyed her closely Dreading eternity friendless She was arranging for companions Among the fatally sick she’d tended To be watchfully waiting In that misty place Beyond the grave.