Amtrak Depot I proceed to the beat of a drum rap on my butt cheek. Sassing my way past the Walgreens, I rock a ponytail metronome. Let’s get one thing straight. This poem isn't about Ellen walking to the rhythm of music. Rhythm of the written word is where I’m at. I read and my Nikes begin to groove. And my head begins to bob. As in an MTV video, my trunk be BOUNCIN. Two words read: Amtrak Depot. A measure in a pace. Composing the sidewalk rhythm of a billboard symphony.