poets and parking lots.

I’d write poems to stacks

of cement blocks outside

gas stations and 

poems for parking lot after parking

lot after parking lot, close the trunk with loaded

groceries.

I’d write poems for those red delicious apples, waxed

up and

tasteless,

and poems for motel beds and airport walkways and poems

for the quotidian corporate resemblance of America and I’d write

those poems.

But I can’t.

And sooner or later, the poets will stop, and the

parking lots will always

grow.

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