Silver skies above tan silos. Buzzing
electrical meters and half assed wiring. She
hates when he walks away from her, and he
wishes he didn’t have to go anywhere in the
first place.
Keeping it out of reach is how they are made
to run for it. Marching blindly after promises
carved nowhere that is clear or at least
specific.
Shifts nod good morning to each other, one
looking much happier than the other,
in spite of the dirt on their faces.
There has to be enough places out there
for them all, but none will ever try to seek
them out. They think quietly to themselves,
and occasionally out loud, about how they
always thought they were destined for
something different.
Nods
Teleporting Typewriter 