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.