The Parking Deck

January 20, 2015

Sallow smokers guard the gates, sharing flickers and fumes before work. They fidget and strain to look away, but fail to leave their insides. Pissed, I watch them pace their prisons, itching and picking, and flicking ashes into my lungs. They must be guarding something horrible. Our feet and tires chew salt. Everyone hurries to halt. A sphere, now warped into a pear, pops out sideways from a cube. It follows me into an elevator and I hold a button so the cube can join us. We try not to intersect sensually. Room after room, after room, after room, of rotten wood and mud. Like termites, we build a mound, a spire to a God made of fool’s gold. The day ends like it begins – stamping out like we are stamping in, keening a fine point: we are not human.