Open letters on the floor
all asking for money,
to be exchanged
for the courtesy
of no further contact.
She stands on a wet
bench blocking the sun,
with her hands, so she could see
me walking down the hill
heading toward her.
We don’t like to be around
others because everyone seems
so sad now a days, and we pick
up on it like wolves howl
at trains that cut through the
night and split the town in two.
We sit together with our soaked
hair and both just stare up
through the branches
of the few trees still
barely growing in the park.
With nowhere else to be that day,
and the smell of smoke from far away,
we knew that we could stay there
for a while.
Teleporting Typewriter 