parking lot sahara

Empty parking lots intrigue me —
not your high-street minnows
skipped over in a beat or two,
but the angry tarmac of airports,
hostile in anguished emptiness.

I imagine a hurried citizen of 2020
unwittingly stumbles on the intrepid.
Mask down – he’s taking a call,
acronymic agency crap distracts.
No looking up until it’s too late.

Worry needles the man. He’s far,
connection’s patchy, pixelated figures
beg him: “be safe, find better signal.”
But what can you do? Deep in,
the bitter desert’s got him; 
void to presence as water’s to dale.

The battery sings a swan, it dies too.
White lines denote black coffins.
Picks one, lays entirely undisturbed
– thinking about his aimless life –
until the lot drinks him complete.

What a terrible fate that’d be.

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