Kamppi
Movement, keep on moving, mêlée, throng;
The bustle passes as it starts again.
A thousand people hurry. Eyes don't meet,
Except to judge the distance in between.
A short man, anorak and moustache, pulls
His luggage on its wheels, and just behind
A girl in tight blue jeans strides sweetly through
The crowd, swigging her Pepsi on the go.
Two tiny tots in pink boots, hats, and gloves
Press fingers up against the café glass,
While five boys buzz their flying saucer up
And down, get in the way, and kick the walls.
Beside them all a suited businessman
Sips coffee, briefcase resting at his feet;
A woman with a pram sits anxiously
And scans the bus departures board for times.
A waitress in black apron bends and grips
Four half-full glasses and an empty tray;
A salesgirl at a stall hawks liquorice;
Three more thrust perfume samples at thin air.
An older lady with a single pole
For Nordic walking passes by the queue
That fidgets silent by the cash machine;
A couple with green matching backpacks chase.
Movement, keep on moving, mêlée, throng;
The bustle passes as it starts again.
A thousand people hurry. Eyes don't meet,
Except to judge the distance in between.
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