The dayglo vest and white
plastic hats amiss among the Saks
sacks and sparkling jewels
on elegant women's
wrists and fingers,
that small hollow of the neck
just below where the Adam's
apple would be if she were a he.
How do they get anything done
amid the crush of
every moment of the eight to five -
the slope worker lugging
his arctic gear even though it is
only august now and not required until October,
the European couple walking hand in hand
clearly touring, worlds away from
Bucharest or Buchenwald or wherever it is
that sends their tourists to us.
Or the pretty young coed
running the streets on not much more
than her skin and a few strips of modesty - every man
watches her go by, but whether
in lust or sadness it's hard to say.
The traffic passing inches from their
studiously bowed heads,
if they were at a desk wearing a shirt
and tie these rough handed men
could be any banker or lawyer or
office drone just like the rest of us, secure in the
climate controlled safety of some nameless office block
instead of out in the streets
aglow and breathing in all that is life.