Time-Machine

[piquant]

Time-Machine


You place me in your future,
With flying cars and microwaveable popcorn.
We take elevators in skyscrapers
Made of glass.
Shattered.

You see, I am in the past,
With manure that you step in,
Bloody noses,
And leaky faucets—
Here apples are exotic
And wood burns.

Don’t trick me with your pleasant bite
And pins of pleasure,
Shooting me forward.
Because my stomach stays behind,
And it is nauseous.


Any improvement over the last one?

[azmuse]

well. i like " The apples are exotic/And wood burns" - makes me want to run the 2 hours to Lancaster County - so homey...