I came all this way into a city to draw a crooked tree.
I'm sitting here watching people for my stories. Manipulating them to mean something to me. I hear the sax. He plays here all the time.
Tall strangers, short men with glasses, women covered in long coats, green pants, yellow shoes, others in high heels. Everyone of them counting steps into the next task in their day, pass the tree with crooked branches.
All the trees here grow crooked--because of the wind.
The people are so distracted, most are untouched by the music. Going about their day, in a hurry to where?
All of the lights are turning on, the buildings are alive!
And the people rush along, pushing and shoving time to hold on.
Got somewhere to go, somewhere
anywhere to go to
I keep looking for my next task, next step
I am in no hurry.
I should keep walking
and so I get up and leave the crooked tree and the music behind in yesterday's news.
I'm headed home now. I made no friends. Everyone is still a stranger.
bus, however..."
No comments:
Post a Comment