Subways rattle overhead;
long corners scream the voice of metal.
Below, a street fills with faces.
Anxious gazes, newspaper readers,
nervous feet, fingers tap,
hats tilt; waiting for bus #58.
Warm city breezes swirl,
painting faces gray and humid.
Sweat stains armpits.
Foreheads glaze like thin frosting.
Collars breath unbuttoned.
Sleeves roll up tight.
Tiredly the bus doors hiss open.
Worn steps wait for tired feet.
Seats yield to deep sighs.
The aisle fills with suits and dresses.
The city drains of its people.
Roger Singer 