About me, around,
by the ton and pound,
the masses,
stamping feet, the sound,
surrounds me, the town,
the crashes.
Collar turned up,
hat turned down,
some modern anthropologist,
observing a concert,
unharmonious,
with life.
Cigarette dangling at odds with the wind,
lamp post, the third leg,
for a crushed mind,
mine, all mine.
Observer for the Russian,
edition of National Geo...,
something-or-other,
to remark on the art,
of moving mass,
around me.
About me, around,
can't I grab just one,
just to hear the sound,
of knowledge,
again?
©1983 Carl Erickson
Backstory: R.T.D. is the Denver area Rapid Transit District, I admit I have a thing about Buses and Bus Stops. Like elevators nobody likes to talk, I think it is movement or the thought of it. This poem also has a non-word in it, 'unharmonious' is a word i felt compelled to call into existence.