Archive
01/23/09 - (1)
Dire Times
Nobody would see him throw himself under the onrushing subway, In front of the careening industrial-food-supply truck, Out the window of his seventy-ninth-floor office,
Because he'd only resort to such dire last resorts in his daydreams, When he'd catch himself lost in thoughts, gloom-fraught interludes, Anathema to all beliefs he'd ever entertained.
But these are not normal times for dreams to maintain an even keel. Indeed, in the past three months, three weeks, three days, He's watched the oxygen get sucked out of his stocks.
One day, he was grantor and beneficiary of the American Dream; The next, he was janitor, in the basement of the American Nightmare, Sweeping the shredded bucks fluttering from Wall Street's crumbling towers.
This morning, he sees himself in the mirror of his demoralized soul, And the subway, the truck, and the window no longer seem so dire. All three promise immediate relief to his grief.
01/23/09 - (1)
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