Thursday, October 20, 2005

They All Work

As red traffic lights flash green
and headlights shimmer off of
slick streets amidst a storm of
angry car horns,
I cringe, panic stricken,
until I notice the sidewalk.
The sidewalk peers
up at me through a flood
of hydrated workers fleeing
from their nine to five inconveniences,
protecting their weathered brows,
from tiny wet spears with
headlines from the New York Times.
As quickly as it started
the flood dissipates into
calm silence and I observe
the sidewalk, cracked and bruised
from a stampede of Gucci heels
and Oxford soles, and then
for a split second I can relate.

David Dews

Dews uses very little connotative details in this poem. For the most part all of he description of his environment is very factual. He brilliantly relates the flow of traffic and how when we are in our own hurried lives we forget about almost everything else. When he looks over and sees people walking on the sidewalk he has a brief moment of compassion for them. Walking down the dirty sidewalks in their expensive hells, running into each other and pushing their ways through the crowds. But then he goes back into his own world in his car, in traffic. The ironic thing about his poem, which I ‘m sure he meant, is that everyone is in the same place. They are all going through the same thing, trying to get home from work in a busy area. But the speaker distances himself from everyone, with only short-lived breathe of sympathy for those around him.


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