Rhythm
The pulse of a heart in thundering ears
from feet tapping down stairs on the
return.
People; looking, smoking, talking in
tune
to the flow of pedestrian rivers
winding soon to their sea.
Falling and rising wind gust the small
away
to corners where leaves play and dance.
Buses come and go in all their colours
smoking like people they wander off
while lovers leave.
Natural percussion taps the concrete
as drops of water end in splashes.
Humans flee a patient man's world
as the street turns wet and grey
and as mist is unfurled my bus comes.
He nears the bus and steps inside,
paying for the ride then sweeps away.
The rain stops falling but drizzles
instead
people emerge from overhung architecture
to a sunset of red, then night.
