The Day the Listicle Died. (009)
It was quiet
no big explosion,
nope you missed it.
There on a lone Sunday afternoon
dried up on a hot rock of apathy.
Not even a wisp of vapor disturbed the air.
No crowd rubber necking over the demise:
like a car wrapped around a telephone pole.
Dogs did not yowl.
There on a bright, clear day
people did breathe fresh air,
lovers kissed under trees,
new friends were made,
not a single elderly person was abused,
children were laughing with their parents,
many meals were made,
the hungry were fed,
war became and anachronism,
Nik did not follow peace.
Something called equanimity was spoken of —
Eyes were opened —
Poem number 009 of 365.