marking time

marking time,
eyes glazed, pupils constricted
to the head of a pin
from facing the blue white sterile light
for too long
a zombie tribe
numbering in the millions
if not more
waits.

this throng, agitated
in a subdued anesthetized
way,
crowns one of its own
a clown of sorts
knowing little of the past
less of the present
and practically nothing
of the future.
“why not? it could be worse.”

in a strange unreality
a vaudeville show becomes
its own rehearsal,
a dreamish state from which
only an atomic flash
can awaken a person.