Different Yesterday

Yesterday was different.
The compass needle pointed
North, more or less. The one-way
sign, such elegant black and white,
meant something, unthinkable
now. Green signaled “Go!” Red,
“Stop!” We didn’t cross the broken
yellow line for fear we would
Combust.

                   Now there’s a glitch
in the system. A tear in the fabric
of the world. The Americas are
suddenly spinning away from each
other, and Africa has stolen itself
back from Europe and Asia.

I see a familiar face in the street.
Wave from a distance. Believe
this will be over soon. I don’t
know why I think so. Is it
some atavistic impulse to choose
the path of least resistance?
To deny the inevitable slow
march from hinterland to sea?