Fire Alarms of Citarum

Now, this is a new patio.  Same old stars and planets.  I think of the days when we'd not think twice over shooting out the streetlights, pulling the lever on the fire alarms even though they'd catch us with the blue dye on our palms, the place where our futures were written.  This is a new patio and a loving couple pass by just before dawn, clicking their tongues at the dog that they raised from just a puppy, that sweet smell of pup and love, that unifying element, that status quo of Western Civilization.  A dog named Boo whose abdomen exudes the memory of everyone's first bike and lost tooth.  This is a new patio but it's been here since the beginning of time.  Waiting for the sunrise this morning, waiting for the happy Mr. and Mrs. Smith to pass by, eager to improve their heart rates, lower their systolic BP.  Yes, that too, that too.  If I shot out the streetlight, things would come into focus but I don't own a gun.  Yet. I'd have to keep it out of reach where it would be of no use, would have to learn how it works and then, worry about it working, worry about how to keep it clean.  A well aimed stone would do the trick anyway and rocks are free, no hate speech intended.  They'd run to fix the EPA approved of lamp though because  in this hemisphere darkness is the enemy.  It looks too much like night. Mr. and Mrs. stride into the distance, holding the sin of their flashlight, praising and examining the character of their dog as the sun revives all this stuff one more time.  They'll be off to work in a few hours, the stores will all be open and no one will be the wiser. The price of Indigo is 4 billion somethings.  It says so on their hands.