Footsteps against the glass floor
distort everything below
the people walking briskly
to their trains, or cars that wait
out by the roadside.
It is likely that we will work
right up until the end.
Nothing saved just a white
flash in the sky while an old
woman in a paper hat drops
a scoop of ice cream into a cone,
but even that never reaches its potential.
The long lived have a much
shorter view of the future
born mostly out of the pessimism
that they won’t be around for
it anyway.
We sleep under fabric
surrounded by dead grass
while the sky is blocked
by smoke and all the lights
we have to burn
to stay awake.
Teleporting Typewriter 