Monday Night, Late

So, already, here's a seasonal poem, the result of my poetry-writing group's recent poetry experiment assignment--to write a poem inspired in some way by parking lots, or a parking lot. The experiment came from Erica Goss's Vibrant Words: Ideas and Inspirations for Poets; Goss has a history of poetic parking lot inspiration.

So here's my poem experiment, entitled "Monday Night, Late."

 

Monday night, late,

Thanksgiving week,

In the parking lot farthest

From the museum--

 

One car, not empty,

Parked just beyond

The chill pool of white light

Cast by a single streetlamp,

Naked sentinel posted

At the the summit of the hill

Rising steeply from the lot's edge.

 

On the hill, two roads diverge,

Both leading to architects' dreams

Set deep in wooded lots

That can't conceal them

Once November's stripped the trees

And sent their leaves
On a forced march

To the barren lot below.

There is no silence in November.

Bullied by the wind,

The oak leaves skitter rustling

Across the lot in chorus line-like waves,

Each briefly obliterating

The low hum of ignored talk radio

And the friends' easy banter

Muffled already by

The heater fan's dull shush.

 

Now and then, the red-lit tip

Of a cigarette or joint

Slides out above the top edge

Of the driver's window--

And then another line of leaf dancers

Launches out across the empty stage.

Giving it their urgent, noisy all.