Special In A Crowd


Passing through the mobbing crowd

Through a sea

Of faces

Of shirts

Telling where they’ve been

Of candy wrappers

In grubby hands



“I don’t like this”

You say

As you recoil

At each person

You push


Trying to reach

The bus that already left

The station

To the crowd

You claim

To be superior

You claim to be


As you jostle among

The rest of them

For the same goal


Pushing past them

Reaching the front

You see

Outside the scene

Through the gloves

Your grubby hands

Just like

The rest of them

Reaching for

A bus

That didn’t care for

Your superiority

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