Separated from the Tour
The day comes
when frequent streets
puddle unusual,
bus fumes smell awry
and all collected to the senses
is nearly new and terrible.
The crowd moves homely,
wet and dull
with soft menace.
And you, untouched,
invite its weight, yet
feel it part around-
as if you were a stone.
The buildings lean not quite aligned,
no consolation in design,
and you think
perhaps -it is I-
and reach in jest, in apprehension,
for an English-to-whatever.
You move, nonetheless,
no more, no less, the practiced steps
that make your way,
trust the cables,
trust the door,
feel your feet grow slightly leaden,
as you ascend to upper floors.