In these parts we tally up the days between
the weekends on the door frames that we walk
through to our bedrooms, and the night is not
enough for us to sleep through, but we have to
just to pass the lagging time.
Most of us are by ourselves and those that
aren’t are all afraid they soon will join them
in their empty room parades where all
the music is radio static and the footsteps
of the neighbor past the ceiling.
We learn that numbness is a different kind
of feeling where the ends meet at a point
of no return. Glimpses of the infrastructure
along the daily back and forth is all that’s
there to look at when it’s early and we know
what we are in for.
They count us like a number is our only
indication and then we serve our stations
with all the energy we stored by going home.
Are we not friends out here in the fun house?
Where all the hopes we had are held
as distant islands past a never ending storm.
Give me that final day when I can say I’ve
had enough of all this waiting and debating
all the reasons. A swarm of screaming wasps
flocks violently around a power line until
the lights go out and everything is dark.
Teleporting Typewriter 