when the last war ends

the morning will open with old possibilities

the streets will render fantastic visions of kind strangers

  completing the mise-en-scène

the colonial buildings will stop reverberating the lament

  of unchecked power

they will appear gentler,

their sins cleansed by a sunrise of Kodak Gold

even the Tax Office will look beautiful --

and the clerk too --

as she unlocks the automatic glass door that barred a foyer

filled with faded catty-cornered couches,

piecemeal perennial brochures,

and a hodgepodge of dated chotskies

assembled by a now retired

time capsule committee

returning behind the counter

she will count the time with purpose

eagerly waiting to ask, "How can I help you?"

to a nervous entrepeneur

with a burgeoning collection of late notices

she will lean in to listen without judgement --

like a priest at confession --

and explain to the grey man all the by-laws of salvation

he will say 3 Our Fathers and 2 Hail Marys

then return to compounding pennies at the Wool Exchange

content in knowing they both barrack for the same team

content in knowing that the whole day could go on like this --

and tomorrow too --

unperturbed by the spectre of foreclosure or divorce:

the way it used to be

as if it were 1994

as if it could be 1994 forever