May the dead, despite their closeness,
keep out of sight
and may the only remaining bombs
be either conventional or duds,
may the supply of cell phone ringtones
be permanently depleted
and may the traders on Wall Street
stop their crazy shouting
and, with a shudder of self-disgust,
desert the trading pit,
may there be poems all around them,
piled up on the sidewalk
and melting in the goth girl’s hair,
and may yours be the one
the frenzied crowd is wildly pushing
toward the fly-specked window
of the Chinese takeout to read.
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