Pink Sun Air Guitar

Look at them, beneath the smog and sawdust of the city. They’re all racing to be the first.

The first to read the latest novel — hot and damp off the press. The first to try that new restaurant. To Instagram plates of perfectly coiffured food. I see them drinking overpriced coffee from undersized cups. Working overlong hours at underpaid jobs.

It’s no wonder they look down.

They look down at their feet, at their hands. They look down to avoid each other’s eyes. I wonder when they last saw the sun set. Or saw it rise.

I stand here, and I too, look down. Look down on their treadmill, rabbitcaged lives. And I sigh. I wish they’d look up. I know if they could hear the sky’s music, they’d feel compelled to dance.

So I stand here and play air guitar for them as the pink sun rises.