wired

MP Armstrong

downtown, chestnuts crack
under my feet, a thousand
little ribcages. ice breaks
and leaves crumble, death—
dyed chips of paint strewn
across the sidewalk. i lived
here, at the intersection of
winter and fall. i lived here,
the corner of beauty and
brutality, dodging the
ghosts until i nearly became
one of them, caught up in
the music of their own crackle—
grounded electricity holding
them to the telephone wires.
downtown glows with it;
it sweeps in waves over the
vegan restaurant, the repaved
road, the quiet insistence that
things are getting better and
perhaps you should be here
to see it. you could live here,
too, be a pulse with everyone
listening, and a marionette
with wires that lead to the
rainbow-vein hands of
your mother, kneading a
lump of dough, and the
ghosts of all your former
neighbors and cashiers.
you could live here,
sparks flying off your
fingertips right into the
sputtering symphony of
somewhere i thought
that i already shed.