Like so many of us, I have long wondered how crappy poetry could get. Poor William Carlos Williams and all his hopes and dreams for language, the non-confessional imagery allowing his teeth to grow larger in chewing on potato chips, slices of fried root cutting tongue and gums, piercing the eyes of his companions, the waitress a memory of hope.
Your poem has me thinking of Tom Perrotta, has me sanctifying the double-decker tourist bus lollygagging outside these windows. Does the reflection of the girl from Iowa in that plate glass first floor catch her eye, or are there I-beams and recessive histories pouring from the microphone-mouthed driver?
I cannot search for destinations any longer, offer rationales for the complex culture I have spawned, spreading around these people–exemplified in every disaster film (insert earthquake, plane crash, bubonic plague, the other side of someone else and their documents for survival).
Everyone is screaming softly between their beating hearts.