From New York? Chicago?
Though we hurry, we merely crawl;
We’re blocked by a surging mass ahead,
a pushing wall
Of people behind. A man jabs me,
elbowing through, one socks
A chair pole against me, one cracks my
skull with a beam, one knocks
A wine cask against my ear. My legs are
caked with splashing
Mud, from all sides the weight of
enormous feet comes smashing
On mine, and a soldier stamps his
hobnails through to my sole.