So many nameless strangers,
Uncounted as they flow.
Filling out the city;
Each knowing where to go.
–
They come by car or bike.
They come by bus or train.
They come as local workers,
Or visitors by plane.
–
Individual workers
Heading for their place.
Weaving through the city streets
At their chosen pace.
–
They flood the streets and alleys,
Like a never ending stream,
Until they enter glass-clad towers.
Roomed; no longer seen.
–
With the flowing human torrent gone,
It’s quieter on the street.
Just a few, with appointments due,
Go out to meet and greet.
–
Others now walk easier paths;
Still strangers on the go.
Not in town to work a day,
But moving to and fro.
–
A hobo and his dog,
With a park bench for their bed.
A giggling couple, arm in arm.
Window cleaners overhead.
–
Bikies in their leathers.
Tourists with cameras and maps.
Police patrolling up and down,
In uniforms and caps.
–
All now in the city
With some purpose they each came.
All part of this living heart,
But strangers all the same.
–
And within this disconnected mass,
On all of which depends.
The saving grace within this place;
That some will make new friends.