A Passing Shower (June/July)

Vacant streets
cut grass
empty mornings
we fret.

Watches spin
time runs
hours flee
we stress.

Right shoes but
wrong socks
forgotten phone
we groan.

Somewhere mayhem bombs
and people flee their
panicked lives while
we bemoan

in column inches with
sordid pity, chattered fragments,
sixty-second updates
we sigh.

Interrupt our misery with
gossiped snapshots of
death and despair
we hear, we want to

in regular intervals
of foreign nowheres
made whole by estimates that
we can pity.