Striding figures
move steadily along
broken pavement
mouths moving through
one eighth inch thick glass
a window framing
a familiar scene
machines sail on
rivers of fractured
asphalt
more heading south
than north
today the clouds do not
smother the sun
today the pilgrims come
and go
today voices clash, merge
into a cacophony, an
avoidance of what surely is
to come
marathon - this existence,
this place
a pram, a child, a future,
a sequence of ones and zeros,
a string of choices -
this magic we carry -
a look, a glance
away.
