Sitting Watching

 

Sitting Watching

 

I have just stepped off the train.

 

I pushed with the others to get out

of the station                                               and

managed to break free of the pack              and

secured a bench on the footpath.

 

I sit.

 

I should keep moving with them,

keep moving towards my workplace           but

this morning something tells me to

STOP.

 

In front of me a sea of suits

ebbs and flows down the street,

seaweed shades of grey and black,

murky and churned.

Their faces hold no expression

and yet they move with determination.

 

They move or are moved?

They are drawn.

 

They know they should be somewhere,

by a certain time.

So their legs do the action

that they don’t realise

their brains are ordering.

 

The street cleaners are at work,

they look angry.

They follow the flow of suits

like you would walking your dog,

with a plastic bag and ‘pooper scooper’.

 

The sound of metal chairs

being dropped on concrete.

Umbrellas opened.

The coffee shops.

 

Traffic behind me plays the soundtrack.

Engines, horns, screaming ‘hurry up, there is

somewhere I have to be by a certain time.”

 

Above,

tall buildings impose their authority,

like sentinels.

 

Still more                                                       and

more suits float by.

I should be in there.

I should.                                                        But

this morning something told me to

STOP.

 

Some of the sharks in the sea

are looking at me.

A thousand mobile phones,

with ears attached,

turn to look at me,                                          because

I stopped.

 

I didn’t think much of it at the time,

I just stopped,

but I’m starting to realise

that something is

terribly wrong.

 

Because the sharks dared to look,

now some of the smaller fish are looking.

The sharks had a scowl,

but the smaller fish look

puzzled.

“What are you doing?”

“Get up!”

“You can’t stop.”

“You’re going to be late.”

“There is somewhere you must be

by a certain time.”

 

I get up                                                        but

I cannot merge with the flow.

I swim against the rip.

 

The suits fret.

I am a leaf                                                    and

they are a line of ants.

I have broken the line.

The drones look to the leaders,

“what do we do?”

I have caused some to almost

come to a complete

STOP.

 

Almost.

 

As a consequence they

have to jog 2or3steps

to get back into line.

Back into the inaudible rhythm.

Thump,              thump,                            thump,                            thump.

 

I made it to the other side of their channel     and

am now standing, facing the wrong direction.

 

New drones look at me,

scared that I am going

to step into their path.

Their minds are calculating,

they look to their

left                            and                            right,

“if he steps in I can side-step

this way and not lose rhythm.”

 

I should jump in                                          and

go with them.

I can’t.

They keep coming                                       but

are thinning out.

Then there are none.

The waves have stopped.

The street is death like.

I should have gone with them. Now

I can’t.

 

I light a cigarette and think.

What have I done?”

 

I step into a coffee shop.

They stare at my clothes.

Suit and tie.

They look up at their clock                           and

back to me.

I ask for coffee,

the lady asks

“is that to take away?”

 

I say

“no, I’ll have it here.”

The silence deafens                                      and

she stares,

“what have you done?”

 

I take my coffee                                           and

sit.

“What am I doing?”

 

People are scurrying again.

Carrying folders.

They look at me                                           and

at my table.

Shouldn’t I have

a folder in front of me,

what am I doing?

 

The coffee tastes strange.

Forbidden.

The street keeps

working

around me.