The faces flow past
So many that some must be the same?
The escalators stutter
Her weight, with the rest, may be too much
The shopping in rustic plastic
That strains against the rolls in her hand
Breaking now, a birth ripping through
The eggs smash like a new dawn
The sauce makes it set
Individuality saunters off again as more emerge
Through the doors on the linoleum
Out now, crowding around the broken planed meals
We say, ‘This is competition’
For a second I cannot find my own face in the opposite mirror
In some sort of ill-defined end
We’ll know that one’s purpose matters no more
Than the momentum of just
Being there
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