everyone is gone
Some of God's would-be prophets didn't work out and were transferred to the late-night cleaning crews of American department stores. I listen to white noise through the headphones and polish the escalator handrails. I drink black coffee and walk the empty parking lot during my lunch break at three in the morning. Low clouds inspire so much anxiety that the moths are attacking the snails. And I'm still writing poems on postcards and sending them to old addresses once occupied by people I used to know--people who either died or moved away.