I buy my one-way ticket
and when the doors open
I climb into the car
and sit on the orange bench
with my own window into the city
of a world already built
and under deconstruction
I ride unswerving into the future
the end is forward
the end will assume
a single reality coming
apart at the seams
the cradle of the car tilts
and I watch bricks suspended
in blue straps swing
across a chute of grey slurry
building anew the erasure of time
and something too small for color
Photo by Oran Viriyincy, used and adapted under CC.
