the roads that bookend neighborhoods bracket working hours too; the maps they make of an hour’s stroll fly over my head in my dreams
i, fancy primate, with my new phone burning a hole in my pocket killing bylines am buzzing with greed and any social media will bury the lede but the accompanied eye will see
by the tennis courts a seasonal emptiness wanes pushbrooms and golf carts create lanes we trim our beards and clear our drains till only what we want remains