Friday evening at five o’clock
the faces are walking through hell
fuming like steam pipes in all Gotham's languages
wounded that they’re right
wounded that they're wrong
exasperated at being humiliated for so long
aggrieved they can no longer humiliate
anxious and worn that they are or aren’t noticed
tired how they’ve sold themselves out
purses hang low to the sidewalks
cell phones are clenched down on ears
people who barely still speak to each other are not
it’s too much to look at new fashion displays
too hard to take in the lines at the subways
the buildings themselves are now adversaries
of memories, decay and transient gray
if the people still at work almost smiling weren’t discreet
they’d be pissed off at all of them too
for who is to blame when lives have no purpose
and they’ve chased a string down to its end?
All of it hits in that moment before
the horrible smell
the deafening sound
the vacuum-packed sausage of crowds:
Happy Hour at the Friday night bars
what they’ve been waiting for all week
