Rush Hour
The morning has no narrative
to be deciphered.
The grey sky is simply grey
and the sounds reaching the ear
carry no meaning, just
the noise of machines
and motor cars. Even nature
gives no eloquent speech
but allows each utterance to fight
for space or privilege with cries
and discordant howls.
Clumps of people spill
from carriages and clog
bus stops with minds
wired to worlds
squeezed through the window
of a tiny screen.
The morning tightens
and presses something
deeper into itself,
becoming smaller,
more difficult to reach.
Mouthfuls of panic hurry past,
unnoticed,
before being swallowed
by automatic doors.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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