New York, New York

It is mid-week again, and the incremental fines imposed upon the clock toll as a bell ringing down. There is slippage in these transactions that cannot be undone, while yesterdays glories are traded for tomorrow's guilt. The markets tick along accumulating matter and wealth. The traders eat it up then spew it from their faces. Traffic is turning corners down the way avoiding vicissitudes and man-hole covers. They flirt with fate Like a time machine gone awry. Some sad story on the news is blinking back a gush of tears. Some will live; some will die, But all go hungry for a lie.