Ice cubes made of antifreeze
float different from the rest,
and are even slightly orange
if you check them. The back streets
are full of puddles that dig
deeper into the road assuring
more will follow and they will
be deeper and far more irritating
than before.
She leans against the bathroom door
staring at the brushstrokes
so apparent in the red paint
on the wall. In her peripheral
she notices the silhouettes
of people passing by along
the outside of her blinds.
They make stops along
the highway to collect their
favorite signs, and they hang
them up throughout their cheap
apartments. Electric billboards
outside banks and local
gas stations have help wanted
messages scroll across them,
offering nothing.
At night they are the only
thing to see.
Teleporting Typewriter 