The Merciful Mad

Who are they? Could you please write
To the poet and ask her?

The merciless righteous—those
We know all about. Their list,

If including history,
Would entail analogies

Of extension to the moon.
We could name those merciless,

Although we’d never finish,
And as for the merciful,

The fingers of one hand do.
But who are these merciful

Driven mad by this era,
The arrogance of the times?

Maybe tolerant parents
Who always forgave their kids

But now run shrieking through town.
Maybe gentleman bankers

Who winked at their worst debtors,
Who now dance naked for ghosts

In emptied marble lobbies
After they’ve closed for the night.

No, it’s got to be the clocks,
The atomic timekeepers,

Their mercies invisible—
Coordinations well met,

The absence of crashes, goods
And weather systems hourly

Redirected, predicted—
Merciful, synchronous gods.

They’ve gone or are going mad,
It’s their time is out of joint,

As the mobs mill in the streets
And the supply chains collapse.

Did we get it right? Time’s mad?
Could you ask the poet that?