This is a charming lot of peace
Right now, that man owns no
pressure, nor sense of urgency
no uncalled-for call for haste.
When one recedes to solitude,
What’s the point of slowing down
In these white lines, with all
scooters and trains and
smoke-belchers taken by the afternoon
slumber, pre-rush hour harmony,
All footsteps are for inklings
Solitude is rare on the streets,
much more in highways with
their claimed order of red, green and yellow,
paralyzing the restless, quieting the excited.
At once, now, all we have is peace,
not fleeting order.
An ambulant rephrases the view in his eyes,
redefines space and concrete pavements.
What astonishing joy, to be alone
in the expansive streets – usually agog with turning heads and jostling arms.
No one else but the wide sky,
perhaps smiling at a rare find.