things move around

There’s a certain segment of humanity
- there’s one in most offices, maybe 10% -
who wake up on a Monday morning
with a new, crisp, clean calamity
ready to go, like a folded shirt,
or polished shoes with new leather laces.

They put on their personal crises,
brush their teeth, and go to work,
where they strut around like hounds at Crufts,
presumably on the basis
that a tizz turns heads,
that people like me give a toss.

Now be honest: do I come across
as having a surplus of sympathy,
in spite of my morning ritual
of applying the scowl to my face,
detaching my heart from its strings,
and perfecting my unfriendliest glower

in the bathroom mirror?
Nope. But the panic faction don’t care,
secure in the knowledge that one day,
tomorrow or in the far future,
their attire of dud disaster
will stand for more than just vanity.