are arm wrestling in a truck stop.
in a city, hardly known, just outside the state line.
i raise a glass & look on as the weather patterns change
& threaten our little home.
it's a sick feeling really when you don't know the words
but say it anyway.
& know exactly how to look.
a monster will crawl back in his hole for this.
he will lose his name & his pride & his dark green, matted fur for this.
then the crows will come.
circle the city & sleep on the high lines.
looking down on the place where the fields were cleared
& a metropolis rose like the devil with a handbag.
the streets will slowly fill with the faces of the nameless,
who's feet move in automation towards the places they don't even know they're going.
i will move quietly among them,
having lost all but my soul.
a bright, glowing neon sign.
"open for business".
& this then, is how you will find me.
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