Exceptionally bright fluorescent lights
and the malleable paper of an office
brewed cup of tea in my hands,
I realize none of us were meant to be
like this. While I am stuck inside, 
something akin to Autumn—a warm,
sticky promise of unending change
and the soft decay of time inerrant—
emerges and rears to beating heart
and a breath let loose.
Inside the office the air is sharp
enough to make our old folks shiver,
but outside, the dried and candied
husks of cicada still cling
to the rotting wood of Kentucky’s
backyard. In the spokes of every
porch railing, webs are silking,
dotting haunts yet to be.
And in the cold basement,
silverfish slither through
the cracks, mocking modern
infrastructure, making their home
in the dampness of a shower floor
or the crust of old carpet put there
by landlords of yesteryear. Even outside,
a lonely cricket sings his Geiger
counter songs, tapping his way
to reproduction, filling the world
with more song to be silenced
as the quiet clicking of plastic
keyboard tries and fails
to keep tempo.