I remember daily chaos of grey,
industrial faces and dress shoes,
skirts grasping to contain the sway,
sneakers, slippers, concrete blues
and greens & smudged haze of worry.
Bright red ads above our heads
ignored. Each day, buses & maxis
pull close, reckless, baptise us
in charred  & exhausted clay.
Voices robust above the smog
& ropy cobweb. Plain pigeons run
next to tired terrazo & feet
smeared with the rush of a city’s day.
All straight lines, hard surfaces:
transactional|unforgiving|decayed.
But still a child’s pride in the brown
stone history, the familiar slipway
for those who work and leave.
Seven years, this was my way home.
Drifting a dirty boxed corridor,
one among the mass cliche of skeptics & pious,
a cracked cathedral where no one prays.
Blind worshippers streaming forward, inveterate.

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Crossroads I