In the parking lot, the moon spits gum
and the buildings forget our names.

Elevators hum like tired animals,
carrying ghosts who never clocked out.

We feed the city our unfinished selves—
coffee cups, receipts, small confessions—
and it chews, and chews, and smiles
through a mouth made of neon and omission.

At two a.m. the buses become churches.
Everyone faces forward.
No one believes in arrival.

A man in paint-stiff jeans sleeps
with both hands around his lunch.
A woman reads a paperback
as if the ending owes her money.

Somewhere a dog barks at a billboard
for happiness in studio apartments.

The river remembers what we throw away.
It always has.

Morning comes wearing yesterday’s shirt.
We go back in.

Fictional launch sample created for Broken Zine.

Writes poems about cities, weather, bad luck, and the strange persistence of ordinary people.

Fictional launch contributor created to populate the prototype issue.

At two a.m. the buses become churches. Everyone faces forward. No one believes in arrival.