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2003-07-10 - 3:11 p.m.

Outsider

The subway thunders along its fixed route
As a passing S.U.V. coughs up smoke rings.

Threaded together, the phone lines cling
To silhouetted poles, standing lookout

Over every victim, pusher, dropout
And drunk beneath their industrial strings.

About a half-million human beings
Spread their hieroglyphs to sell themselves out.

But there’s still hope for our urban eyesore:
A child in rubber boots wades in a mud

Puddle, his mouth unhinged in a feral roar.
Not so far removed from puddles, I know

He’s Godzilla, emerging from the flood
To level an unsuspecting Tokyo.

 

 

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