Fall 2008

Table of Contents - Vol. IV, No. 3


Poetry    Translations    Fiction    Essays   

Gregg Mosson


Depression at 7 A.M.

Churning the world into garbage, skimming
off the top, siphoning crème de la crème into communities,
commerce processes us, though the gears go slower, like a Ferris wheel
everyone clings to, even though most are beyond
three feet tall. We should be doing something better, more adult, but
sit here, while the wheel slows—in fact it stopped long ago—and feet dangle,
millions of idle feet
letting their shoes drop.

The minimal—like a banner—
greets commuters at subway stations, waves
over the capital, is bunting behind the candidate
as she speaks, appears as a T-shirt logo
on some dude sipping a soft drink.
Fists squeeze satisfaction out of lattes, from whizzing past
cars on the expressway, by getting in line

Old song—how did you come to this?
Today the refrain is "too late,
off to work now, I can't wait
until dinner."


© Gregg Mosson



Poetry    Translations    Fiction    Essays   

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