Infinite dotted lines race down
cracked streets that stretch
beyond my field of vision,
and the sun beats through
my flimsy tank top
and the wind ruffles my hair
like the down feathers of
the pigeons in the streets.
The hustle and bustle of people
should bother me.
The endless pushing and
shoving, the foreign languages
and snippets of conversations:
Mothers yelling at their children
to stay close.
Mothers asking
frantically
for directions.
Fathers staying out of
it.
Around every corner
something new catches my eye
and the sights and sounds
of this unknown city
draw me into every
historic landmark
and
every architectural miracle.
Everyone,
and I mean everyone,
is moving.
Impatient businessmen on their
way to a job
they hate.
Musicians on their way to
play in the park
for a fistful of bills.
Tourists, with their noses stuck in maps,
hurrying to the next
landmark.
Everyone,
and I mean everyone,
is moving.

Except me.

I sit peacefully
in a city
that never sleeps.