The airwaves are all tilted towards
destroying my extension chords
so all of this can finally go away.
The one bedroom building by where
the train track meets the warehouse
every morning when the moths are still
deciding where to sleep.
It’s rough out there without a coat,
this winter when all the summers
feel so far off in between.
Restaurants have half the chairs
and empty stairway echoes
out to nowhere in the breezeway,
but the cheesecakes have been selling
all the same.
An unfinished chess game waits for years
until eternal friends return there to the board,
where every possible great outcome
has simply outdone how it’s likely to play out.
I don’t remember what it felt like getting
over the horizon of this Main Street
of all Main Streets ever born,
but I am torn between it’s memory
and a future so uncertain
there are no guarantees
of ever going back.