On This Date in History

Nothing happened. Someone discovered
This news in a hotel bed.

Morning filled the white sheets' sails with light.
Newspapers under the door

Reported a former mayor's death
By way of local headlines.

Archaic technology, newsprint 
Inked on pulp, stained the fingers

Turning to syndicated features,
Crossword puzzles, comic strips,

Lingering at obituaries,
Passing over horoscopes,

And arriving at the almanac
Itemizing dates' events.

How poetic. How lyrical. How
Dull this date in history.

A nineteenth-century steamship sank.
A pope wrote a papal bull.

A presidential debate was held.
Poland quickly surrendered.

And that's about it. Two thousand years
At least of written records,

And even such events as happened
On this incidental date

Were mostly turning points in stories,
Wars, religions, industries,

Whose great beginnings, sad conclusions
Managed to avoid this day.

Given there's only three sixty-five
Or sixty-six days a year,

Can there be that many days without
Some great shudder recorded?

Maybe every day keeps a secret
That no news media tech,

Not of the moment, nor reaching back,
Will ever elucidate,

Or maybe that secret is the news
That nothing is what happens.