Who will gather leaves for the children’s craft?

Who will sort the harmless reds from the poison?

Who will fold and unfold the octagonal star?

Who will care less for the flower than for its unfolding?

Who will look at a rock and see a king, a loser, a lost you?

I love to work a crowd from top to bottom

and as wide as they make em

as long as you’ve got ’em.

I love to work a crowd

that I can swim across—hand

over hand —

an ocean of hands . . .

of all kinds of colors . . .

and a thousand pairs of eyes

and they wink

as they press away

with a sea of smiles

to make room for me!

“hey-how’re you doin’?”