On Second Look

So much here disappoints.
Markers of the sacred
marketplace need a hard scrubbing.
New maps might show
where all the old verities lie.
It’s clear something terrible
has happened.
The lame still cannot walk.
And the blind are like you and me.
Every day Postal loses mail
that answers prayers.
Though each day
is a drawdown nonetheless
and counts against us.
We lowered our sights long ago
when we lost the ability to see
things as they are. Some say now
the new normal is here.
And isn’t someone always unhappy
with the music?
But oddly, not the pink zinfandel.
In spring the young can be seen
marching out of the tired city
squinting to catch sight of the eternal
and true.
Once, how to remember—
so did we
when all the lights still were green.