A man with a wool hat pulled over one ear
and a plastic bag loaded with potato chips
stands in the turn lane while traffic
surrounds him with no gaps
between the oncoming cars.
They all filter through flickering
guide lights that leave
pools where the road
meets the photons
that rain down from the power line.
Time will keep moving past
what’s in front of it
no matter how many floors
they stack into a crowded garage.
Names written in plastic cups
on overpass fences like postmortem
signatures that are only left up
for the weekend.
I ignore them now because they
remind me of the view
you get through other people’s eyes.
Fast food bags from prior marketing cycles
fill the gap between the edge of the city
and where the wolves sometimes
look in on us and wonder.

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