Snick, snack
A sound of train tracks
Running through cities of
Buildings, towers, stacks,
    And a skyscraper
Below which is sodden evidence of a
Discarded pair of pants.
Trees assembling on the paths
Drop their leaves
To be stamped upon by
Cycles, rickshaws, ponies
and compacted into a
    Foliated pavement.
And milling about in sporadic groups
Under gay shop windows
That display, among other things,
Sequenced dresses and Japanese rings:
    The inhabitants of this place.
And each one a cypher,
A symbol, a character --
Faithful, degenerate,
Trivial, regular --
And each one pointing their own direction.
Disoriented, isolated,
    Stuck in a trap.
Now I too have wandered here
    And become lost.
Somebody draw me a map.

                        -Jackson