where they step from the parade
and scrape a chair over the floor.
They want to rest, the same
as anyone. They're so weary
from holding the banner
of appointments, from splicing
forty-three minutes of drama
around Charmin and Toyota's
year-end Toyotathon. Ignored
as the intricate, tumbling gears
on an escalator, they really get that
everyone's horrified by the blinding
threat of being late. And aren't hours
as baffled by the express that years
seem to travel on . . . the one that
not one passenger even recognized?
They cherish this point in the night,
when the snow's still falling through
the parking lot lights, and someone
notices the vitality of their moments.
Every puff the wind takes from
the rooftops appears cosmic white and able
to reward this particular hour's
perseverance. And isn't it true
that the ocean has no concept
that we measure out its coming
and going by the hours, for years
ahead? We demand such precision
to greet the days we presume will arrive.
Though it's only this hour, when the day's
snowstorm has churned on toward
New Brunswick, that could possibly matter.
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