Trifles and rages (Poem)

The old man with a cotton head
and a coffee stain on his pensioned off collar
eyed the young man who cut the line.
One top-down look
and he took out all the gutter
feelings.
Fuming
and rubbing his buttoned beard
he was ready for a crime.
the highways on his forehead
gave the green light for nerves.
No more Advaita and Aham Brahmasmi.
the anger ran like the Krishna’s chariot
in Mahabharata.
The cane and the brain carefully chained
by Prozac went loose.
Dostoevsky was right.
“Trifles, trifles are what matter! It’s just such trifles that always ruin everything . . . ”