In this parking lot,
The silhouettes
Of dead children
Trapped in cages
Hang from
Buzzing streetlights;
Their featureless
Corpses creak
In the warm
Summer breeze
Unnoticed,
Except for the gulls
And pigeons
Who pick their
Stiff flesh
Down to the bone.
In this parking lot,
Security cameras
Capture disenfranchised
Faces whose frustration
Expands like
Puddles of piss
Across the asphalt
Leaving damp trails
That lead nowhere,
Until they are erased
By the white hands
Of the morning sun,
And are forgotten
Before noon.
In this parking lot,
Apathy bubbles
Under the skin
Before it permeates
Out of pores
Due to heat, humidity,
And a lack of shelter—
Sweat coats
The body
In a slick
That forms
Mountain ranges
Of pimples
That are clawed open,
Instead of popped,
By dirty gnarled
Fingernails
To release
The pressure
Built up by
An infection of
Warm blood
And thick viscous
Yellow puss
Caused by
The passage
Of today.
In this parking lot,
The congregation
Sits on curbs,
Praying to
Lady luck,
Receiving the holy communion—
Tallboys of cheap beer,
Bars of Xanax,
And shots of smack
Always chased with
A half smoked cig
Found on the street
—As they hide from police,
And beg store patrons
For food or loose change.
The process
Repeating itself
Again
At the same time
And place
Tomorrow.
The ritual preserved
In this holy land
For an endless
Succession of days,
Until it is
Accepted and practiced
By the mainstream
As a religion.
In this parking lot,
There are no locked doors,
Shackles, keys, or iron bars
On the windows—
There doesn’t have to be.
In this parking lot,
Blessed are the forgetful,
Because
There is no
Escape.
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