Overlapping street names can’t be read
by looking at them in their totality.
The one in charge checks his watch and
paces back and forth talking to no one.
Everything is covered in rain drops that
reflect the light into warped colors until
they evaporate.
Two teenagers are locked together, among
them, absorbing the humidity, and listening
for anyone walking near.
There wasn’t anything to hear, but still they
never let themselves feel safe there.
They hold hands in the light downpour
walking past parking lots covered in fresh
tar, and notice a space where someone must
have walked through it.
They were the markings of someone only
capable of dragging their feet, and looked
like grim reapers rising through the
blacktop.
Teleporting Typewriter 