Poem Including History
A curb the color
of nausea.
Parking lot gravel
splintered with glass,
dog shit, receipts.
Storage sheds--a row
of lamp-lit doors
deepening
as dusk thickens. Now,
night, they're all that's left
and traffic's
excuse for music
moving through the room.
If you like this article, consider making a donation.
Reprint this article. Click here for rights and information.
