An exercise to stimulate the nerves

In the cafe of people I used to be friends with
the pastries are sticky, expensive, and sweet.

I lose track of time in fantasy there,
with friendships that were mostly imagined

and now reside entirely in dreams. That is
a safe place, non-confrontational, non-monetized.

Wake up, write it down. Shower. Think about it.
Did those ex-friends and ex-girlfriends reveal anything

last night about my past or my future? Where is
the present? Towel dry. I misplaced it.

There is coffee to be made. A radio program
mentions Newt Gingrich, Iran's nuclear program,

and depression, problems that have gotten worse,
or at least haven't gone away, since the '90s.

It will rain. There will be Newt Gingrich.
No two depressions are the same, I think,

at the urinal, mid-morning break, it is in their
resemblances that we discover the meaning of the word

a low place, created by the downward
pressure exerted by an outside force

or sometimes the crumbling of a fragile
interior structure, resulting in deterioration

on the surface. But you don't see anything
wrong. I look up at the decorative rooftops

of buildings. A huge crane towers over
the corner of Broad St. and Cecil B. Moore.

Every day I walk under that crane,
hoping nothing will fall and crush me.

Aaron, the sidewalk over the subway could
just as easily give way under your feet.