I’m in a time lapse of a time lapse
where the stars move fast
like traffic on the quicker days.
Nobody has enough batteries
to keep the screens on and
the local sponsors happy.
They try and tell me what they want
from me, and all the days I spend
out awol in the side streets
haven’t helped the mornings
cool down any sooner.
You can touch the original American mirror
at a slanted two bedroom farm house
on highway ninety.
The finger prints don’t last long,
and the line is always shorter
than the driveway.
The wife there once confided
in a stranger she was worried her
late husband, in the days when
he was drinking, would have punched
the thing and shattered their whole livelihood.
Lost people in cars they have to sleep in
wait like snipers by the gas station
for the giving faces lurking
on the road somewhere.
Missed buses take the form
of sidewalk miles
drinking clear night
like a potion made of
Broken bottles let the world know
there was someone here
behind this closed down shoe store,
where the guards get paid to
cover all the blind spots.
The closer at the flower shop
demands answers from the runaway,
who has no one left to call.
All the graffiti on the playground
is undercut by growing sounds
of singing from the windowsill,
up all night still attempting
I want to believe in a song
I cannot hear unfolding
freely over everything,
but in my deepest definition of music
there must be something
she can dance to while I sit here
on the sidelines barely breathing.