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