Street writers outed at Armitage
by a hairless cynic.
“Guy gets his ass kicked!
Write that down…”
he says and frowns.
A moment later I can’t pick him
out of a crowd.
The bike path underpass leads
to the self-storage smoke stack,
through a drain-pipe waterfall
and past the glamour of a weedy courtyard.
Shopping cart junk piles fight
gravity uphill to feed Finkl Steel.
cranes graze scrap piles
for car parts and refrigerators still
unworn and ready for more.
Molten metal sizzles in
a giant’s cauldron.
A robot’s lunch bubbles red,
but where are the flames?
when the sidewalk ends,
iPhone dings again.
I am the green dot
on an empty grid.
Find me.
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