I wanted to write a protest song
then realized how, all along
I’d been beating time with my pulse.
My cardboard sign was turned to mush
in the rain, and the slogan, gone in the rush
of feet pounding it into the mud.\
My chant was the choked hello I gave
to the Mumbai caller who said I’d save
a lot if only I”d hear him out.
I paused:
a hiccough in the turning wheel,
a gap-toothed gear that kept the deal
from closing at its proper time,
the TSX, a market blip,
the Dow of Pooh had gone to shit,
all because I scratched my head and paused,
the meter broken, the line unscanned,
the wristwatch smashed, the second banned,
and not a tick from the ticker.
but my pulse
marches
on
