#44

Perfect splintery cylinders spiked deep into the ground, stuck with rusted staples and sheared flat on top. Run through with buzzing wires carrying life and death together. A propped up carcass to hold the hopes of man, keep the wheels of progress turning. A tiny tree stands vigil, choking on sour exhaust and yellow urine, roots rubbing concrete. When it sleeps it dreams of damp moss, the company of brethren, rich black soil, plumes of white breath from hot lungs, the tickle of worms. It wakes to the meep meep meep of a car alarm.