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The city street is consciousness, of this
you can be sure; and ample funds the starch
that stiffens legs, squares shoulders, beats the march
rhythm (of heart and soul) that none here miss,
but some here lack; that pedals cars and buses
to its own diatonic scale of rush;
the prospect that accommodates the crush
better than any tube-train can; and what’s
more, pauses in dynamic urgent posters;
the friction glows, it spirals up in smoke
that's paid for; everything's worth it, it seems;
it oils the business-talk and trims the joke;
it minimizes things that do not cost us:
and if it's not street consciousness, it's dreams.
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