The Concourse

IMG_20150316_102910899_HDRTo read along with an audio file, visit my site at Cowbird

An uneven beat of pat, pat, pat,
people rushing alone with briefcases
or together, arm in arm, suitcases rolling lazily.
Workmen rushing to repairs or to replenish,
Their carts thudding rhythmically along floor tiles.
Dressed in their best or in their most comfortable:
The attire of tourists in I *heart* London hoodies;
Sensible layers en garde against shifty weather;
Scarves, the souvenirs of travels past-
Scottish highland wools, delicate Asian motifs,
And that simple grey one from a sudden cold spell
one Portuguese afternoon;
Traveling musicians with metallic cases plastered in stickers,
sheathing beloved stringed instruments carried on their backs.
Leaning shoulders lumber with sacks full of clothing,
books, tools of their respective trades.
Some dreaming of time away, their journeys to begin.
Others wishing they didn’t have to go- not yet. Or never.
Children, eagerly peppering parents with questions.
Confused faces searching other faces out for one familiar.
Bustling waiters make easy conversation in native tongues
over deep brown cups of coffee and smooth paper headlines.
A crescendo of sound and movement,
an engine’s low hum and the squeak of tired wheels.
The floor teems suddenly with coats and tickets at the ready.
Near the end of the concourse, the pianist strikes, tink, tink, tink,
with a bright and chirpy tune rising above the receding bustle.

The Concourse

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