From shaded window, cup in hand,

observing bustle to and fro.

Watching faces, cold and blank; 

posture rigid; hearts that shrank;

fearful of who might 'outrank'

...and shatter ebb and flow.

As, marching time on city street,

their footsteps beat the same tattoo.

In rythm with the daily throng;

while numb minds mime the same old song

  just to move the throng along

  ~ and scurry safely through 

tall portals, made of steel and glass,

to elevators' vacant stare.

Then mindless punching of the clock

counting every tick and tock

no time to pause, no taking stock

  ~ of why they're really there.

At times, they'll dream of 'some day' schemes;

that 'final step' through glass and steel.

When grindstone has no nose to grind;

Creating life from one's own mind

   ~ once city street is left behind;

And they'll pray their dreams are real.

First flurry of the day subsides.

Watcher sighs ~ a deep relief

Thankful, not to be a cog

  to have no part in city slog.

Just the skill to learn and log

   ~ the city's role ... 'Time-thief'.