a sullen breeze
dances down the
city's crowded corridor
supremely pressed
stark white
shirts obscured
by bay street suits
expensive watches
showcase the time
in all the major markets
keeping track
of all the appointments
in all the world
everybody's got a place
to be and a person to
see and a pitch
to knock em dead
parking tickets
subway transfers
accounts payable
hot dogs in motion
footsteps pounding
like pistons
over a greasy asphalt grill
what the hell are all of these people really up to?
surely it can't be as important as they'd like to think
if you put tracking devices
in all the hot dogs in this city
even the most skilled
air traffic controller
would throw his arms up
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