Tilt

The sun rises steadily

through pinks and blues

as the toaster makes a

sound it has never made before.

The burning smell has moved to my basement

again,

and holes in the front yard

appear with increasing frequency.

Five identical cars appear from

behind a dumpster which is visible

from the window.

The lights flicker in steady

patterns and

somebody

has stolen my pen

again.

The car refuses to start in the

cold of february and

one of these days

the sun will fail to

come up.

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