Behind the Cracks

A blank haze flashed, and layer upon layer it tiled itself over the creeping static. The swell of vacant lots was bursting all the fences’ chain links. «Acme», read the side of the truck. Amongst the graffiti and rubble, my eyes were nonetheless fixed on the fading supermarket truck’s sign. It did not even take a touch to know that the truck was rotting; the white paint was sickly even when perched between tired cherry-red warehouses and pale dirt. So seemlessly did my gaze avert when I managed to cull pastoral memories from the depths of memory. A slight run of the finger across my skin could tell me that neither here nor there was a sanctuary disconnected from salty grit. Four stars were shining, and the jaundice halo carpeting the circumfrence of the sky certainly made me fall into laugther. Thus, I shrouded myself in the seeds of our fruitful conrete, stone, and steel endeavors. Grass still grows among the cracks in the sidewalks, and plastic bags dance on broken telephone wires like two squirrels chasing each other up the side of a maple tree.