They all walk along the piled snow
and talk about how nothing makes any
sense, the jackets that they wear
are made out of recycled curtains
from demolished old hotels.
Some run their saws along
the branches of the scattered trees
because the shade just isn’t
needed in the winter.
Drawings of women in ash
on the brick walls of the liquor store
smile when you walk in through the doors.
I’ve seen the elders hit tables
with their fists as a gesture of why
the old ways are the only path worth following,
and for every one of those there is an opposite.
Her eyelids hold the waters back,
but as time goes on there really is no
stopping it.
Teleporting Typewriter 