Glass holds a moving image,
trapped in a continuum,
never free but always moving.
Tethered by a business suit
collared by a white starch shit,
looking out past the city-scape
to a dream caught in the wind.
Choked by the overhead noose,
desperate to be set loose
the shadow of the street upon them.
Scores of maybe friends
smile and dissipate into the night.
They stand by the traffic lights,
on windswept rail platforms,
pigeons perusing the detritus.
Maybe one day
the track forward will clear,
the lights may change.
One day.
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