Morning Commune
This morning, I watch on as a group of business people,
khaki-clad, collared, sandaled, slacked,
stiff as the trunk of a hundred-ring tree
rooted in Mad Square Park,
tries to find moments for breath in the middle of a morning commute.
They’re in a circle now,
eyes closed
for the most part
(Pink Collar is peeking – snatching examples
and wondering who’s peeking back)
arms raised above flat-lying collarbones
now lowered
now raised again
spit-shined mules in second position.
Navy Blue can’t undo the tensed knots in his shoulders.
They rise past his ears as he readjusts his elbows
and wonders why he’s left his briefcase
in the center of a circle of business-casual strangers.
Next to him, Gray Pants squirms again
bends his knees to shift his weight forward
bounces lightly to maintain feeling
as blood hurries from his elevated hands to his rocking feet.
Three people down, Purple Cardigan is getting the hang of this.
She hasn’t moved in minutes,
not even when Crew Cut with Glasses dropped an orange backpack into the pot
and joined the perimeter with raised hands
and a quiet glance at the feet still clacking past.
There may be music playing,
but the grunts and shrieks from tires on 23rd street mask it well.
Slow as a balloon leaking helium from its neck,
twelve pairs of hands sink to occupy the spaces
in front of their respective hips
and as they inhale,
miraculously in unison,
a new onslaught of fresh-off-the-PATH passengers rushes across the gravel
to make it to Park Ave by nine.
