At two miles per hour it arrives for the three hundredth time, and this before noon. It's the old guard (Hooray!) orbiting plaster of paris capped with history to the last detail.
Nostalgia is borne on colloid plumes -
part faded wish, part heated oil - and always best
used in open air.
You can see it in their jaded eyes, their old dreams now to scale, but they keep looking for old No. 9 to take them over the hill.
I love it when it hits them,
see that its just another plastic revolution,
a false chance at the ideal,
at least one wheel
always spinning out of whack.