From the third story window,
traffic below releases a voice.
The aroma of warm asphalt, oil and
exhaust rises into the space between
tired buildings. People imitate the ants
below their feet; swerving to avoid
contact. Passing anger remains
concealed within; learned by everyone
to survive. Eyes gaze from open
windows, scanning the streets and
sidewalks. There is a social language
of movement. Each possessing a space
to pass through. Unmarked until the
moment they enter the crowds. Few smile.
Pain spins the ingredients into thought.
Roger Singer 