Plastic Forks

This place made out of crystal looking over
itself like a human does each morning
in the mirror. There’s always somewhere to go,
and even more so always some steep cost
to get there. This is an optical illusion
of a firestorm where nothing new is burning
but the edges of our eyesight where it’s bright.
Sometimes you have to ignite whatever
has a chance to hold a spark because
it’s dark enough to keep you where you are.
Another half drunk night of running
home away from passing cars you
are hopeful you can somehow coexist with.
You can’t though it’s impossible
with everyone so rushed off out to nowhere
but the neon in the night where all the light
is used to populate the dark.
You ride the elevator everyday with people
who you recognize dressed
nicely for their names
that you all might even know,
but never say them out loud where the sound
could make things different than they are.
They let us eat our salads painted over
to look colorful against the paleness
of our plastic forks that no one else
can force behind their skin.
When you look over all the statues
not so affected by the wind
at least for now because they’re
barely even born.
The first few raindrops hit the back part
of your hand just as you now understand
the odds connected closely to the dawning
of a storm that you are not afraid
to stand in any more under the archways
poured so perfect out of concrete.