Her friends wave to her as she walks
their direction and her sunglasses are mirrors
for her eyes. They have no plans tonight
they’re staying in and staring out the window
at this city that is motionless, and a source
for all that does not close the distance.
No maxed out radio stations can stand holding
onto old decades fading out as the beat down
car it follows passes on.
The cast asides wave their hands around
on the roof of the skyscraper hoping
everyone will think they’re holding guns.
No one believes them and the busy squares
all clear like they would anyway, and just
like everyday the rush to get home stagnates
on the highways leaching tire air,
and everybody’s hope for one more
hour they can stay who they decide.
On the table of a surgery a dimensional
collapse is finally happening,
and the point of contact warps
around the shift just like a plastic bag
contorts around a finger that is breaking
through the side.
The woman on the table wakes up
somewhere all too different with a new heart,
and a new start from the point where
all forgotten get away.
Teleporting Typewriter 