Hollow armor on a fence post,
hockey pads without the smell.
They dream of cities without limits,
or just their breakfast with no cost.
The day is lost to pushing rocks up
every hill then back again.
She said she would be coming home
he sits there and he wonders when.
When worrying they count to ten,
it doesn’t help but makes him stop,
taking stock of what’s inside
red leaves in pools float at the top.
Clinging to the metal rails like fingernails
entrenched in snails.
They’re covered in the slimy guts
just jet black frowns within the cuts.
Hollow
Teleporting Typewriter 