All the neon in the street signs
was blue, and all the clouds were black,
but they were hanging back at a distance
biding their time.
New cars that matched the look of old computers,
ran silently and cut across the back roads.
Diesel semis were routed through
the central squares, carrying batteries
and everything else I would need while I was there.
Fights still took place behind bars at night.
Headlocks with bad technique ruptured blood
vessels in the necks of loud talkers
who were never taught.
Although, to them it felt like dying not to try.
I walked miles for a shift at the warehouse
that stored caffeine and laundry soap
in tanks we lifted onto our shoulders.
They watched us punch our numbers in and out.
That weekend I went for a short walk within
the radius of the familiar, and there was nothing
I couldn’t see without my eyes.
Teleporting Typewriter 