I said I wouldn't keep score,
But it's been about a twentieth.
Neither the wrinkles in the towers
In a wide pan of a burning city,
Nor the the bags that hang low
In the wind of dream chasers,
But the dull red light that pulsates
Alternating with a set of boxy zeroes.
A colon separates what it was
To what it is when the script is scrapped.
There are plot holes in these potholes,
She rolls over the asphalt like a farewell.
An actor worked and made me a friend,
It is just a campus forever again.
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