The Sunday paper fades: on the corner
the grizzled man handkerchiefs his brow,
lounging on a chaise of canvas and wood - 
under the umbrella the June sun beats 
and blinds upon, he glazes in the fumes;
he’s selling news already stale, 
ink soured in the heat;
flyers, blaring bargains, almost melt,
the plastic sticky, coupons past their date;
the gossip’s all black and white
and prurient as a bygone belle
in a gown of dingy yellow crepe; 
summer swarms of gnats and scores
of runic games, read for signs of future
gains, a play by play of yets-to-be,
and paneled stories in color for a time;
stacks unsold on the green table stand
towered like a paper pyramid soon
crumbled into pulp, a decomposing
mold, of photos in pixelated blur
and out of focus words, life transcripted,
a buzz of headlines smeared with yesterday.

The glitch in the mouse used to run in the house,
but it seems to have gone in the ether;
and whether we find in the wires that wind
around the battery base cantilever,
or whether she’s lost in midsummer frost
and icicles whose flavor amuse her,
she’s sure to return, this glitch never learns,
and circle the circuits, the sneaker;
yet going around the keyboard profound
we’ll search through the web til we meet her -
the caught little glitch no data will snitch
so with pixels and bits we will treat her.