on a street corner
where they once hung a pair of sneakers
from the powerlines
for petty crimes
where arms look like switchyards
and bottles vanish in ruffled brown sacks
like most dollar dreams
and the foot on the gas
is as light as a feather, stiff as a board
where worlds collide less often than words
as they sail past each other
separated by nothing more
than 6.38 laminated glass
as
they do revolve around their own suns
somewhere in the center of your universe
there is a big
supermassivecurrently pressed hard against the cheap fabric
of a car seat
This is Hartford.
Current Mood: tired