Destinations buried in lookalikes
get lost in what’s reused
from the unfinished places
rotting in the rain.
Automatic doors at small convenience
stores get slower over time until you come back
after college and have to look at your reflection
while the aging machine moves forward bit by bit.
The wine bottles look like they were copied
and pasted across the shelves by something
filling in the gaps.
All the checkout workers look like the same person,
but when I meet them face to face
they become blank like I am looking past their eyes.
An old woman in a trench coat drops a whiskey bottle
while talking on her cell phone and she holds it
in her teeth all while she picks up shards of glass
with just her hands.
I could have done more but I got in my car instead
and the music played above the roaring sirens
in the background and the chatter of the now assembled crowd.
The moon was orange in the orbit of our nightly turn
on this side of the star where all the memories
reappeared and did not seem as far away
as we once thought.
Teleporting Typewriter 