Rush Hour

Heads bowed they scurry, In formation, but each to his own, Like great lines of supplicating ants, Flowing in polar directions. A horn honks, hardly heard, As the girl in a world of her own, Steps out across the junction. Tyres screeching, hearts beating, A shout, A greeting, Old friends meeting, Across the street as the girl keeps walking. They move, they rush, Too close, they push, All for one and none for all, The people keep on scurrying. A crowd, oblivion, So many, alone. This, then, is Rush Hour.