There’s nothing left but porch lights
slightly flickering in the middle
of the night and all the raccoons
pilfer quietly, aware that we are
listening for anything.
All the flags on their poles
are tattered and really barely
holding on without the songs
sang in their honor
they are withering like we do
without time.
Plastic in the places we are trying
to keep clear of it.
Like the roof of the gymnasium
where Bob broke both his ankles
just from jogging for a while
in the rain.
Across the power lines between
the shadowed buildings
we have stacked up into elevator
intervals we take the day apart
by staring at the light.
An old woman kills coyotes
with a trident in the mountains
where she’s trying to retire.
When she is finished
she just sits there by the fire.
Teleporting Typewriter 