The dayglo vest and
white
plastic hats amiss
among the Saks
sacks and sparkling
jewels
on elegant women's
wrists and fingers,
nestled in
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
humanity passing
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.
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