(Poetry)

Subway flow, we are in the mix. A hallway closed tight, crowds thick, strewn, stairs, small door where we enter up from underground, A new location, falling daylight, dampened world. Rush hour, whirlwind pick and grab. With percision we weave through crowds as if we are the only ones there. This is a mess, there are children, white gown uniformed, out of school. The sidewalk cannot fit them all and they are in the street as cars are passing, swerving, stomping, honking- drivers outraged at coincidence. This is day rush, a red faced madness. The family seekers, dinner maker wives who wait and can´t get home- multiplied into millions, horns, exhaust, wafting ¨hallejuha!¨

above the buildings sits the greenish air of atmospheres. A halo that rides low, fits firm, drifts away with wind.

In the evening it whirls circles around rooftops, against walls, bursts of misfit drifts. Like the sound of cracking backs is the reason a child wakes for warm milk at 2am. An invasion of this space made personal, kept upright no matter how small it gets. The walls are thin, are shared, are stained in the place of the past armchair of a man who lived here years ago.