They are realizing at last, if only dimly,
what they’ve bought and what’s been
sold out from under them.

Sitting there slack, slumped against hubris, mouths
opening and closing, sounds coming out:
no sense to be had there. You would think

they’d get up and move, either 
trying to escape or beating a path
toward something better to come after

such an awful time; but not now, or not 
yet at least, in spite of the scent of urgency
in the air. Instead they hold harder to 

the prejudices and suspicions 
they’ve always been chained to, 
as if such things could save them

in a storm that’s only now begun 
to rise to full scream. They sit there
and scream along, they do not move;

as they are engulfed, they seek
a scapegoat and avert their eyes
from what they’ve bought, from

what’s been sold
from under them
with their clueless, ecstatic consent.