I wonder if the taxi driver ever thinks about the couple fighting in the backseat,
if the sidewalks remember the weight of the people on them,
if the windows keep the reflections of the everyday viewers,
if the benches mind the histories of the arrowed-hearts painted on them,
if the tress tell the stories of the names engraved on them, even a hundred years later.
I wonder if the man in the subway looks at the passengers and sees no faces,
if the woman looking at the security tapes knows our schedules and if,
when she examines them, can she notice the days when we are happy or lonely?
We walk the same streets, take the same trains, wear the same jackets.
Skip the same beats, dance at the same songs and tap our fingers in the same manner.
Does the accordion player waiting for coins knows more than one song?
Is anybody watching?