This night
is too still
even for a corporate park,
squat hotel
among slapped-together homes
The ground
holds secrets
of times past,
musket balls and tomahawks,
relics
of pioneers and war.
Brick facsimile
stands sentry now,
faux elegance
tacked on to a green Earth
screaming to be free.
The Sinequa ghosts
shake their bloody heads
at our lives,
ticked away in board rooms
with catered lunches
eyes glazed
simple slaves
to numbers on a screen.
