no rot for flies.

for the ones who stay at home.

that small town with its train track rumbling full of bitumen.

for the gothic kids and their eggshell hair cuts

holes in the lip of tomorrow's banker, barista, engineer.

for the town with dead fish in striped swim suits baking on a poly platter.

fat floats on the surface of the receding shoreline, the engineer puts on his head phones and sounds his horn which will always echo from the flowers of his grave.

those small trumpets of misery.