It was an old brick building
the same color as the rock
you see in hills that we’ve split open
with the highway.
It had a crooked roof
and floor made of poisonous tile
and was in a stretch of miles
no one cared about enough
to ever take.
It was a branch of a larger bank
you see on towers in the downtown
city squares where it is evident
the promises are broken.
Gargoyles worn down by gravel
over years still vomit gutter rain
like nothing’s ever changed.
They check the window and they
see it pulling up. A dark blue truck
carrying people holding shotguns.
Their heist had just a single step
and they accomplished it in less
than twenty seconds.
Any decedents born there
after would remember
what this felt like in their spines.
The kind of people born
to never stand in any lines
beyond the drawn
that they put down themselves.
The unwrapped bills looked
just liked wolf fur in the duffle bags
that they opened as they floored it
never looking back at anything
behind them.
Teleporting Typewriter 