Everyone’s convinced they are incredible
in opposite directions.
The coffee tables they have had discussions
in the presence of remember them
as the group that never knows
what it is doing.
They were responsible for sorting out
the problems they created in the past
and only walked around the park when it was winter.
They all knew each other in college,
where the configurations of who was
sleeping with who would swap around
at the behest of how the planets were aligned.
They never wasted any time getting down
to what they were in favor of, and that was mostly
what the people writing checks
would jot on napkins, at the dinners where
the dresses and the patterned ties were built
into the source code of the scene.
The news is a place for ghost stories
just like the campfires built in utter desperation
for some light.
They are the ones sitting up at night
staring closely at the heights for just a spark
of something ancient from within.
Then it begins and they are onto us,
and the baseball rolls across the the wooden floor.
They sneak into our history like how a stray dog
looking lost will find its way between the boards
to spend a moment where its way too dark to see.
Teleporting Typewriter 