Presumably they don’t become spectators
Before finding positions to witness the spectacle
But what name is there for the file of pedestrians
En route all marching one way

When suddenly the vectors of attention shift
To the disturbance that defines a center
Two young men grappling
And punches thrown

Mystics inward or upward
Refugees outward
Not-yet bus-riders along the line
And the aimless milling before the panic