Flatlander

We don't have hills up here
Just lake and forests level
As limp blankets,
  never enfolding the city, 
Wreaths tucked away in attics.
And every foot falls flat 
Every being on equal standing, 
And how we hate eachother, 
Better than anywhere else:
 we hate
The cars screaming and the 
Bikes in their way, 
The shooters stand
At gas stations, waiting, 
And all of us simmering in it,
Living our lives in the heat 
Of the flatlands.