The plummet
Of this and great stuff,
And anxiety rips
The falls like curtains
Come from small towns.
I blame the music,
And battle myself
Outside a sad cafe,
Where the outdoor seating
Is all but gruff.
Folks finger their phones
And I wonder what everyone
I have every met is doing,
Which ones are still living
And which have forgotten me.
I am semicolon-happy
In the old future,
Sent from my iPhone