It’s a choreographed dance  
To the melody of car horns  
And jackhammers,  
The white noise of phone calls  
And conversations  
Where only money talks.

It’s called the big city shuffle.  
Your partner sits across you  
On subways, or in back alleys,  
In the opulence of a penthouse—  
Even the pigeons do it,  
If you let 'em.

We all dance different
Some limp, some shuffle so fast  
Their calves cramp—  
All lock step to the time of progress.

We shuffle in courthouses, cathedrals,  
In tenement halls and overcrowded  
Coffee shops,  
Over the trash heaps  
And broken dreams of capitalism.

Take me to the countryside—  
I don’t wanna dance.