Dreams of boats and dinosaurs eschewing everyone without weapons and rafts; green, tangled pieces of iron lie dying beside rickety picnic tables below. We’ll likely die here, as well. In Florida; the hot meridian sun heating everything. Our perpetual youth is embodied in dilapidated buildings and war memorials.
Past empty, we walk. Gas stations and burning hotels all blaring radios or alarm-clocks set to Spanish polka. No maids to listen to them here. Or to turn the sheets and place chocolates. The sun laps up the flood now exposing rusty iron tools or fossils.
Maybe blood is like oil or soda removes wine stains. Snapping open mortgages is brutal at first -- like oysters halved and emptied on a plate. But they must stop hurting, eventually, after we boil them.