4:18 pm
8/28/15
Flat Iron, Manhattan NYC
It was the
middle of the week at a humdrum hour.
I have
always speculated
What goes behind
that door.
When the unfaltering
timber door swung shut,
It left a
bad taste in my mouth.
It didn’t matter
that it was adorned with
translucent glass
as it was only meant to uphold
the pristine
egos of who’s in it.
It was only
meant to conceal what transpires
inside the
belly of this amiable beast.
Were they
trying to mimic the splendor of a minster’s
stained
glass, where light replicates the beauty of its enterprise?
No light
would ever survive through it.
An
unpretentious ingress would perhaps do a better job
To announce
an outcome so grim.
It was the
middle of the week at a humdrum hour.
I asked
myself why does this always occur on an uneventful day?
Where the week
is flaccid, and the tumult of Monday is over.
Are they precluding
an uproar? An upheaval to what?
These muzzled
moments are done furtively,
No one ever discovers
its benign tranquility.
“Restructuring,”
“It’s not in
the budget,”
“It just didn’t work out.”
….and that’s
why they were asked to disappear.
As the door
swung exposed, one can almost hearken
A ceremonial
gavel hitting hardwood.
A formal verdict
given to a credulous common man
Scrambling between
the emotions
Of being shoved
away and the unsettling freedom
They’ve been
given the next day.
In the
middle of the week at a humdrum hour.
