Nowhere to be.
The crowd is closing in,
grouping like a stockyard.
Elbows are bumping,
some hand grazed my hip.
The air is getting thicker, and stale.
Breathing, labored.
I’m close to panting.
My palms are sweating, more
than my armpits.
I keep wiping them on
the front of my jeans.
The pocket seams are moistening,
almost damp, like a San Francisco awning.
I try to move forward, then back.
Neither an escape.
I just stand there,
panting, sweating, hands
still brushing my pockets.
Looking for a way out.
