Trench coat wearing grandfathers
pull their gloves around their wrists
it’s getting colder and they’re only
getting older. Bad news is circulated
through the loud speakers in the main
square, it is decorated for a holiday,
and no one wants their Friday morning
fucked with.
Thieves lean against the alley wall
and prey on easy targets, mostly kids,
and tired old folks on the phone.
They count their money in the dark
by only the texture of the bills,
and offer it to a statue of a woman.
When unsure of the next move
they take a look at their surroundings.
At the red leaves on their branches
and the rotting apples cluttered on
the ground. They watch how
a handful of dirt rides the wind,
and hear the cities all fill up with sound.
Teleporting Typewriter 