Grimly the silent crowd paces the familiar path
their faces fixed on some imagined horizon
they flow like water
around bins and blockages and around those who stand
briefly entranced by shining windows
gazing at glittering treasures
eyes lit by reflected streetlight.
The measured tread echoes in their heads
each with its own rhythm
but part of the dark symphony of progress
every mind focused on getting there
getting through
making it
making sure that none takes their place.
The dull streets carry the flood
as it moves like a hunched beast
shuffling mutely toward the holes in the ground
pouring down the gaping throat
into smoke and noise and heat.
And those of us who stop and watch
suddenly aware of the futility
stare in horror as we wonder what happened to our hopes and dreams
and as we rejoin the march of the damned
we cling like drowning sailors to the floating thought
that we may be trudging life’s filthy pavements
but in our hearts we fly.
