A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
8 am in the metro.
The washed-out, shrunk-in
Faces, caving into their
Yawns, like lost souls
With glazed-over eyes
Spill out of the train
And with a look of borrowed
Purpose, march off in a
Phalanx of feet in their boots.
His palm on the pane of the
Departing train, a small Asian boy
Stares emptily ahead.
Whose dream is this and
Do we see each other?
Why are we so keen on
Walking the same way?
Does anybody know
Where we are going?
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