thirteen floors below us
contrapuntal traffic flows
in eight directions at once
(at least!) and bells on bikes ring
pitched above the honking of scooters
beside the horns of impatient taxis
and bullying bellicose trucks
challenging long baritone buses
as the bullfrog-bassoon police wagon
pulls the orchestra into line
with a hooonk-hooonk
and a mega-megaphonic order
(in Chinese which is
all Greek to me …)
traffic flows across
up and down
unnaturally
like two rivers
crossing each other
and the sounds of their
tootle lingo
lulls the town
- and me -
into a stupor
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