Red lights blink in amber haze
Wrist says “Enter Password” in the morning daze
Firetruck bumper, chevron glare
Riding silence with static air
Outlets cracked like fossil teeth
Underneath the table, grief
Something plugged in long ago
But power’s fickle—let it go
Buzzsaw in the glovebox, mannequin grin
Old guitar aching with a song within
Keys and clips in quiet revolt
The bat still swings, but the label’s worn off
A mime face frozen in delight
Mascara scars from another fight
Corner flowers plastic-red
Whispering secrets to the dead
The fire took the strip mall whole
Dreams in ash, spray-can soul
CRUKO tags the rubble's cry
Even buildings know how to die
Buzzsaw in the glovebox, mannequin grin
Old guitar aching with a song within
Streetlight blinking in post-fire dawn
Smoke writes verses we choke upon
Binder clips clang like spurs on tile,
A keyboard half remembers the password of a child.
“Approved”—but by whom?
The bat don't swing like it used to...
Still, you keep it.
Just in case.
So plug it in and let it hum,
Even ghosts need outlets to run.
A Tonguepocket full of tiny screams—
This is how we stitch our dreams.
