As far as I can see,
no one has crumpled
into the recesses
of their daily rag.
No one is supine
in wide-eyed wonderment
staring at the abyss.
The febrile cacophony
goes on.
And the old man struggles
to his table
gripping his cane
and routine.
Almost breathless...
the mist rises from his cup
and the headlines slap him to
full consciousness.
The chess players still
lust for their checkmates
and for this day
all is well
the next
one never
can tell.
* This poem appeared in Spare Change News, and the Somerville Journal.