Fortune: lines lead somewhere
hopeful, but a jumbled mess.

Our palms wrinkle quickly.
We’re at a loss to say.

The American Interstate
is visible from space.

City lights a horde
of blinking phones.

Severed cables hang
over every intersection.

Tires, wires, water bottles
amassed hill-high.

A crow watches from the top,
her head in and out of smog.

(originally published in Evening Street Review, Summer 2022)