Industrial society: more bolt
of lightning than a plan; worn waves of
Rust
Belt, not insidious conspiracy;
a torn, crushed, crumpled Red Bull can
in mud,
a shopping cart abandoned by the road.
Not that some wave crests do not cackle
now
& then, pent penthouse sociopathy
divided even as strewn street gangs
are.
The robots walked into our city on
their soft robotic feet,
walked down our street -- last
glimmering of an
explosion – on their soft robotic
feet,
walked out of it, diminishing into
bright distance. Soon they are Tik-Tok
again.
Bold busybodies crisscross
neighbourhoods, these
faceless in proportion to surveillance.
Starlings murmur from the sky in abject
shock.
