Crushed cans in the hands
of desperate scavengers,
looking for a sign.
Their broken minds
just hardware for a blurry
loop of all their memories.
They try to linger on the good
by breathing fumes under
the hoods of stolen trucks.
They don’t give any fucks
carrying handfuls of torn
bills to the man by the train
tracks with the big dog.
It watches them as they
count out all the singles,
one of many hoping
there will never be enough.
One of Many
Teleporting Typewriter 