Routine

It is the same path every morning

from the train station to the office

two blocks of a walk, three

newspaper stands and halfway

two beggars

dark sky-lobe drenching them

as they strangely multiply along

with the days going by and the index

down for another day, gold

off the mark, the price of oil dropping

what to do with the need for

exhausts and fumes for

statistics that make you wonder

are we truly making progress or careening

brakeless down off-ramps to Hell?

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