Anticipatory Grief

The mourners in their black
and blue bruised eyes
walk down the wet pavement
slicking it with salt
for the loss of the living
for the dead that they can not follow
yet.

she cries
for the businessmen in their sharp grey suits
the ones that would look at you
like something unintelligble, substandard
and inform you
if they bothered
that they do not cry
have not since the third grade
and then they will grow tired
and look at you with all the weary disdain
of men who must fight for their value
amongst the decimal places and conference tables
and never quite win
but only do not lose

she cries
for the girls in red heels
that drive through the pavement
intent on leaving tracks
on this cold hard world
the ones that when younger
a week or two ago
wrote their names in the desks
wrapped around anothers
to give them weight and meaning
but now they are old
and grown
and know that they must make their own way
because that is what the other faces
told them
the faces of these women
who forgot what that meant
in the rabblescrabble of commerce and equality
they've become common and erasable
and these girls in their heels
do not want to become them
so they pound the pavement down
ignoring the small pockmarks
that their predecessors have left
rushing down this same road
in order to get there (where?) before it disappears

she cries
for the old old children
hooked up plugged in
weighed down with the world
that pours through their ears via those small plastic plugs
that carefully block everything else out
those wide eyes
that are swallowed up in the flashing pixels
of another series of someone else's dreams
or nightmares as the case may be
but it keeps them quiet
and thats what matters
so they walk and talk
of kill rates and racing times
and practice their own small conquerings
that mean nothing and fade
within the day

she cries.
is there a tear not worth crying?
we cry for the dead.
she cries for the dying.