Recession

It settles in. And mornings are the worst,
as recent memories emerge from dreams
through which we grind our teeth. Recurrent themes
include the trial, the errant lover cursed
by issues of identity, the plane
that smashes into houses down the block.
We barter fifteen minutes from a clock
alarm that rips like lightning through the brain,
postponing our recession for a space
of time that passes in another flash.
Outside an engine idles. With a jerk
it lurches to a nearby can of trash
where story arcs of fading dreams retrace
familiar faces on the bus to work.

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