Metal: that silver grey stuff with flecks of
white locked inside like a sweet from a
far flung future. It’s corroded, slightly,
struggling with the gas in the air and the
acid rain, no doubt. It’s scrawled upon
in thin black excited lines that play out
an act or two within inches. Life is
ground so tightly around it; like coffee
beans that squirm away from blades that
end them. The hieroglyphs of a tired age
and untrained brain run like lines over
latitude and longitude; arbritary
designations of piety. They cut us apart.
The chain link fence squeaks when the
wind follows a falling sun and I’m
snapped back, shivering in a bus queue.