Long, fast, crowded stretches of tar
Everyone, headed somewhere…
With something on their minds
absent glances from secluded worlds…
Shut within; rolled up glasses
Songs playin loud on the radio…
In this strangest of concerts
Pockets of audience…
Between Orange pauses and Red stops
And the go of Green
Where is the human in the machine?
The one who feebly breathes…
why do you notice
The old man waiting to cross
Only after you have gone past him?