Wet Parking Lots

Better to grease its gears—

the dissected heathen,

dissector of dreams

 

Better to drink its fill—

cupped to mouth,

a tear clawed wet

from a cheek

 

Better to taste lips—a bitter gift—

trickling down

the lowermost edge

to clavicle

amongst ribs

 

Better to wed bone to skin—

now smeared chalky,

white dust on jeans,

ring enclosed within:

 

The saddest parking lot (still) keeps parts of me in its grip.

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