There it was unmade–
the bed, the morning
the decade–come undone
like all the Friday garbage trucks
thundering through alleys
and backstreets, with impunity
and all they pick up
in our ritualistic bins;
The sky lit like
a millennial carnival
or a parade to the Gods
we’ve made–and it
was only just dawn–
Quiet as this town gets
then–in instants–a cacophony
of mothers, men on the make
with their dogs
and rampant pizza delivery
But we’d made it
through the week
while explosions continued
like strands of ugly beads
in the conquered countries
calling into question
whether anyone would inherit
the earth–the vanquished
the attackers or the weak
at this tenuous point
in History.