2022-12-04

streetlights & death

The hotel, in winter, smells like damp carpet. Concrete afternoons shine through the windows. The weatherman keeps you company through another fried-chicken tv dinner. No one is returning for the earth-moving machinery left on the grey periphery of dream states and dawn. I miss the white noise of A/C in a monorail train hissing through pink skies of death. Lay the last facsimile of your face down to rest. Plunge a car through Stockton's wee morning hours of streetlights and death.