Empty storefronts boarded up
like they were trying to keep
the sunlight out.
I watch three men push a white
truck up a hill, surrounded by traffic,
doing whatever they can to get out of the way.
Chunks of concrete fall off the sides
of decaying overpasses, and crush
small dogs on leashes sniffing
around to find the perfect place to piss.
The alleyways mark the abyss
where people lean against the walls
and fall asleep until they unconsciously
hear footsteps in the distance.
The factories no longer have windows
because mechanical arms don’t need
natural light to do what needs to be done.
I can only imagine what’s going on in there,
among the horde of machines we only dreamed
could one day take our place.
The first snow of the year starts to fall,
from blue clouds that block the stars,
and the cracked lights on the street
cast our shadows against the blank ground.
They try to bring everyone inside,
seeking those who can’t help but hide
but most are pulled way out into the dark.
Teleporting Typewriter 