Morning commute

Early dawn drizzle’s polished the pavement

to a high-gloss silver mist this side of blurred;

blinking lights, polished shoes, and pointed end

dark umbrellas fast tap-tap office-ward.

A plane flies overhead, unseen but heard.

The age-old face of time peeps from the tower

the rain’s handed a mirror to old dials

as a puddle smoothens its ripples, the hour

is struck off in bells and an absence of smiles.

A street vendor pulls pretzels into piles.

Each one must travel in his own orbit

in a random bubble of time and space

no hand touches the other inches from it

no eye-contact with another face

each one knows its path and its place,

walks into the lift, maintains a tidy queue

whooshes up and down and no rules broken;

in time a feathered cap or an ocean view

not much eggshell and omelettes are spoken

just that there must be enough silver slogans.

I came across an image of a clock tower reflected in a large puddle on a road, and rather grim faced be-umbrellaed commuters hurrying past it. This was the outcome.