Plastic bottle wind chimes
and a day that can’t decide
if it is cold or not.
Impressions in the melting blacktop
linger longer than the cycle
of the sun.
Still afraid of everyone
they wait inside
where everything is barely put together.
The shotgun shells on the fold out table
are forgotten about and blend
into the background.
No one picks them up when they are
kicked onto the floor just as someone
clears a space to put their feet.
They paint their names into
the street, but not the ones
you know them by,
and never fly to where
some wheels can take them easily.
Drinking caffeine in any form
that they could find it
they would be up
to see the city
when they got there.
Lost Charter
Teleporting Typewriter 