During ages like this 
there is a cloud about next week.
Windows don't quite work;
the streets of celebration are quiet.

A sleep-walker, wishing his lines would rhyme,
would find consolation in wasting time.
As one shaken awake thinks of nothing
but recalling his dream and it's meaning.

jupiter's red spot is or is not 
in it's last throes
the great storm one human life 
is just too brief to know

During moments like this
with the dice in the air, drop from your perch,
run through the streets, shouting.
What have you to lose?