Early morning on the eastern end of things.
Heading east to go north.
Death awaits and the angles of the awards are unknown.
Pass eleven and stumble down to seventeen.
A bank, a bulldog and a vacation home.
A coffee cup, a dead end parking lot and a lost cause carpet on an otherwise tiled floor.
The newsman said there is a one million dollar reward for the recovery of the body, but failed to give any other description. Cash wise casino trailer and a red minivan retro-fitted to carry the immobile. Large vans and manufactured wealth. Striped sweaters, coffee cups and a backpack made for traveling. Sorry. Checkers. Board games. One crumpled napkin, two beverages and a clock that winds down to twenty-four. You’ll never find your way out of here because you cannot remember how you got in. You failed. You’ll fail again.
Broken fingers hold rings at swollen knuckles. Finger nails clip themselves into this sinking feeling, this sinking ship of feelings tethered to the dock of manicured lives. Longshoremen wander aimlessly into the fog whose horn only ever blows for obstructed views. Black wheels. Silver wheels. Yellow buses. You are lost. We are lost. Forever.