This casket is an octagon.

Youth is fleeting, memories meeting
at the end of a yellow brick road, gentrified
smoothed and blackened in stride
in passing, the glassing of our continent.

Park benches, overlooked and overtaken
floods of sterile cement and vinyl siding
beige cubit porches and building codes
slumped over hyphenated-marrige heroin 
painting over nine-to-five pastel hellos.

Technicians are a parasite, but boxing is obsolete.