Stranger Among Other Phantoms
Someone invisibly disturbs several finished
Cigarette butts and barely gathers a nod
At the acceleration of a crowd. The ticket
Line’s for impatient aches – there’s no wit to dissuade
The routine. Stalked by clumsy bags and instruments,
Commuters and distance travelers, the rich and
Penny-counters, four handsome students and a fat,
Unscrubbed sort—all defended by miscellany—
Compete for angles and rewards. Mostly,
They fidget and don’t quite ask a question, while glares
Perform the reproof of an agent, who slowly counts
Light change or lengthy tickets and who replies spryly
Only if questions could be glibly answered elsewhere.
It takes a long time to learn the knack
Of acting alone, and standing in line
Is forever. A squatty, scar-nosed man talks for
The febrile rest of impatience, “Can’t you hurry up,
Up there?” The bald-headed clerk in the ticket cage
Sweats terribly, even among sneaking cold drafts,
And bemoanfully misses the ruthful and foreign
Appetite of my glance, so I slur, “Dobbs Ferry.”
He spouts an unconscious, “Gate 3.” Many
To protract a linear course cancel
Each other’s path, and many, hustling to beat
The rush, are actually causing it. Tours, cameras,
Watches, cars, things advertise collective cures;
And brighter-than-live colors liquefy
The places they want us to go. Stock prices
And aseptic tickered reports, besides. Newspaper
Stands, fruit grottos by the gross. Grand Central
Station. Should a more precise voice then lean
To censure one vague and faulty sign, crowds, taking
A cue from the side, could turn on a stranger in
A second if he says something they’ve never heard.
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