by Benjamin Lloyd
Our roads are divided by
thick strings of yellow mold and
freshly paved every summer by
Creatures travelling along the River.
They pass what locals used to call
the Old Indian Graveyard
to get to a long road that teleports
travelers three hours in the future after
two joints have been smoked and
a trunk-full of pumpkins have been purchased.
Hours and flowers that will
never be seen again and
pumpkins that will rest on the porch until
their smiles sink
into the cement.
Once travelers pass the
abandoned-school-turned-furniture-store-that-
looks-like-an-abandoned-school
they will see
no houses. Only
driveways
driveways
driveways
driveways
driveways
forever.
Pegasus 