I close the gate behind me.
Out of the wild fields and back
into the ambling village,
where no one knows
their neighbor. Banally similar
dwellings force distinction with
fences bearing sterile
metal signs, warning of
recording robots and biting
dogs, for those who
come too close.
The external mechanized brain
in my pocket tells me I am
in “Paragon Estates”, which bleeds
indistinguishably into “Fairview Estates”.
I walk the curved streets, whose names
have no bearing and do not lead to
a gathering place to buy eggs or
chance upon a friend.
The ubiquitous sound of
tires on asphalt companion me along
the stream of ever-flowing
exhaust from horseless
carriages and detached
travelers. Desensitized to the
exhilaration of journey, strangers
descend into the valley where
the fox doesn’t need to hide to
go unnoticed.
I say a passing hello to a rare fellow
pedestrian, who tosses me a
patterned response while quickening
their pace back to
anonymity.
