Surveillance booths stud
all major intersections. Statues
whose images might ignite the public
will to resist are shrouded
in black plastic, wound
in police barricade tape.
Missiles streak upward through
heavy, darkening skies toward
their imaginary alien targets.
The old red convertible
with poetic license
plates, powered by a perpetual
motion machine, will no longer
exceed any speed limit,
but I do not like the look of
the only mechanic in town.
A man I do not recognize
is giving levitation lessons
on a hillside in bright sunlight.
His students (a grey horse, a calf,
a goat, two dogs, and five laughing
children) drift toward the ground,
kick the air, lift, and float again.