In the bowels of the old post office The printing press, like a large rusted spider makes a bed out of ***** yellow paper and rotted cloth of postal bags. It bides it’s time pondering On how it was formed and listening to the coyotes at the moon’s apex over a long stretch of prairie.
Resting in the post office on a grassed plateau are black iron machines that walk, crawl and scurry but shouldn’t. They spend their days building nests and staring into stagnant pools at their own reflection. Waiting for someone to use them.