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Read John Gould Fletcher's poem "Bus-Top":
Black shapes bending,
Taxicabs crush in the crowd.
The tops are each a shining square
Shuttles that steadily press through woolly fabric.
Drooping blossom,
Gas-standards over
Spray out jingling tumult
of white-hot rays.
Monotonous domes of bowler-hats
Vibrate in the heat.
Silently, easily we sway through braying traffic,
Down the crowded street.
The tumult crouches over us,
Or suddenly drifts to one side