Monday morning commute after a fatal derailment

When we wake up
to die
there can be a certain
uneasiness
in our stomachs.

Some smile nervously
and hope against fear.
Most recall the events
of another day (not so far away).

New faces in starched
whites
make for uneasy
exchanged glances.

But the pages
turn;
the day forgotten.
Lattes are sipped,
lipstick applied.

But for the wise
they are ready,
and know the importence
of every switched track,
on every old bridge,
or any pathless road.