The sunlight smacks off skyscrapers, the chests
of engines heave and gasp; chemical sweat
drips from every brow, as we wilt and bend
beneath the smothering heat of Monday.
We move as tin drones down the walk, running
the numbers above our foreheads, bracing our coats
and bags ‘gainst the tides of supply and demand,
channeling our energies into Titans who vow to eat us.
Swooning beneath the November moon,
careful not to rip the graph paper laden with our
pie-charted dreams, we lay our bodies into
feathered coffins, eager for the meager five hours
of fitful death. We rise before REM has chance
to wash our hands and feet, mend our wounds;
we quell the morning seizure with coffee grounds, a
shot, set back out upon the dunes, obituaries in tow.
