Watching as the flagship spirals
out of control.
Sweet neon lights
sputtering supernova
lighting the path back home.

Where is home?

A sign of the times.

Men of the year
walking down cracked walks
sideways.
These imperfections.
Imagine the path
smooth as whiskey
and water.
The element of life.

Imagine the path cleared
by pseudo-wilderness.
Wouldn't it be lovely?
Only interrupted by
the cat-calls of
taxis, metro, trains flying overhead.

Which way is the right way?

Row houses rise on either side
a testament to the time
when this broken down
trains car of a town
was a Pullman City.

Degrading into bricks and mortar,
rusting to the point of
being obsolete.

For a good time
call me
old-fashioned.
This is my former glory,
made into a city.

It's time to decommission.

This is what every show becomes
when the lights fade
and the curtain falls.
When sunlight turns to shadow.

I expect less.