The city ceases to smoke.The evening neon hovers like distended film across the sky.The streets are strained;bearing the weight of impertinent woe.Motorists stare into the blockade that divides here and now from there and then.Their impatience wears thin; horns blare and pedestrians stare.All is still,reminiscent of the result of a useless cosmic dance that culminated in creation.
The bus hobbles over potholes,passing claustrophobic construction sites.At a red light there are haggling vendors,foul mouthed eunuchs and beseeching beggars.They hover incessantly at the driver's arm.Stoicism is his element.He shrugs.He is pert and embarrassed.He speeds away,relieved,as the light turns green.
How they race,these motorists,so they may reach a second earlier than the other.They snarl insults at each other.Still, they are stranded at the same red light.They are bound together by this kinship of futility.All of this monotony is marked with the grit,the sheer desire to return to where one belongs.
As I alight and make my way back home,the neon has gone.I now see the familiar vapor of the street lamp and the dance of a dozen thronging flies.All is intact.All is familiar.The dance is in my imagination alone.
P.S. - Written to the music of Pink Floyd(Great Gig in the Sky).