There are empty hallways where
factories once grew. Office carpet that
is no longer destined to wear-out.
These are the discarded wrappers of society. Life’s litter.
Silent timeclocks hanging on broken walls. Buildings so full of quiet they are
deafening.
This is the footprint of
progress. Missed and crumpled schedules,
dead forklifts and petrified cranes remain motionless. Back-orders never to be filled, switchboards
that no longer blink and conveyer belts without a pulse.
From the highway, travelers
see only broken windows and grass growing up through empty parking lots. They cannot see the old sign-up sheet still
posted for the company picnic. In
pencil, Bob’s name, saying he’ll bring the mustard.
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