maybe the buildings are hollow, occupied only in facade on the first floor of storefronts
maybe this whole town is a hologram of neon against puddles on the pavement.
maybe the citizens are ghosts floating by in circles, or squares of city blocks, around a routine, or droning through on electric scooters as if on muted theme park rides to the next sensory diversion; to the nearest gastronomical pleasure; toward the weekend and its next party celebrating the loss of time, I see their tired faces
staring out from the glass of coffeeshop windows on every block. I see their piles of beer cans beside the trash chute. I hear them singing on *****-cruises to nowhere
What part of this cycle that turns days into dust moves us closer to heaven?
What feast from what new restaurant downtown will feed our souls?
From which lonely night do we finally emerge beside the one whose presence fills these hollow buildings to the top-most floors?
Which of the empty lots between us do we fill with a conversation about how this is all a dream, or how we'll keep each other awake on a bench beneath a street lamp before dawn waiting for the first bus to take us home.