Dead Christmas lights laced
loosely through a nearly shattered
window dangle there.
Smokestacks in the foreground
ahead of clock towers
and glass tunnels between
unrelated buildings.
Stone staircases where people
sit and wait for their rides
in the cold. Forced to watch
the square because they can’t
send text messages through their mittens.
This winter has a soul to it
a kind of chill they’ve never felt before,
and as the hours announce themselves
with industrial songs
they know they’ve been forgotten.
Left
Teleporting Typewriter 