Fresh molehills beside freshly torn, gaping holes in the perfectly manicured strip of lawn in front of the low, brick library. Neon orange cones, erect and scattered like alien plant life sprouted up, accelerated maturity in minutes. Laborers in equally blinding neon orange vests, up to their shoulders in the newly ripped wombs of dirt. Slowly, the veins of the city, exposed by their clawings. Kneeling, heads in the dirt, they resemble so many neon orange buds, sprayed over the lawn. By noon, sure to be matured to full cone-size.

Note: A shrunken airtight room

A shrunken airtight room rides with me today, remnant of a love expired. It sits in a corner of my pumping heart, gamely pulsing to an older beat. Love expired, not quite evaporated to Clorox clarity, yet. Into it my thoughts dip when a craving for musty pain hits and yes it does, more often than I thought it would. It's the satisfaction of scab picking, the carnal rush of a wound reopened. The meaty taste of constrained yearning, tinged with flutes of cheap beer and crumbling gingerbread.