Trace

Last summer seems so far away,
and even with the shifting
hallways of the present,
where I am is not the place
I need to be.

A person in a mask with chains
attached to a loop on the back
of their jacket drags the metal
through the street and the links
make yellow sparks against
the pavement.

Jet engines make bleeding ears
that people hold while watching
shadows cross the sun.
Nothing is ever done it is handed
down to the next set of people
ready to handle the pain.

The answers are on their way
and it is unlikely they are the ones
we want to hear. The water runs so clear
and all the broken clocks create
dissonance with their faulty chimes.

Her bare feet touch the ground
and we are home again
where all is just imagined
by the window frost,
and no one has to guess
about the future.