The year is done, but it is not the new dawn of a sacred time.
It’s once again the ending of an ordinary year profane.
We’ll zero out the GDP and pray meanwhile the rate, the prime
Shall crawl so low the Dow will soar, and if the jobs they see a gain
That’s still all right if they remain in the private sector in the main.
Meanwhile there’s this weirdling feel in this basement where keys click
And bright neons light summer plants, that despite the great precision
Of calendars, where Greenwich Mean’s the universal measuring stick,
Something sacred still adheres, by orbital or high’r provision,
Not just to the ends of years but also to each cell’s division.