Only hide behind orange cones and neon lining
Dead tangles, weeds. Somewhere in the middle
Of a dump-truck’s load
American, frosted ****** breathe comfortably.
Frostbitten pepperoni scattered beneath the rejected ceiling.
Ancestors are planted, but if not, roam away.
Whatever is visible beyond shoulders
Seems like dirt, like sand.
It wanted to peek through dusty, unwashed windows
Cracked paint on the corners
And the middles.
The people who live here fantasize about privacy, mostly
Desperation for secrecy.
They plea for the interrogation from others
You can here voices calling from those broken boxes
Torn families obey roaring, ravishing, rainy, rippling red stops signs
Loud enough to wake internal questions, like
Why don’t they obey each other?
Pendulum-like terms slam the insides of skulls. Swinging.
Bob’s trajectory. Massive bob.
Winking at them as they sit and regret.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Hiding behind orange cones lining up. People always obey green.