Parking Lots

The shadow of the rain through the
sunroof left black spots on my skin.
The shopping carts crashed together like
steel cages and I could hear them whisper
about blunt force

I could hear them whisper about
being tangled

and they took
the rain as a chance
to cleanse.

The sky is just a passing lane,
an avenue to
the ground.

“You cannot make a home in the sky,”
Gravity declared.

I am reluctant to
believe him.

Whoever first let the saying
“you can have anything you put
your mind to”
escape their lips
knew nothing of
spiraling
imaginations.

I want the sky.

I want to perch on clouds
make tomorrow a myth

I want time to be a story
you read just before
bedtime I want death to
be a dragon
you can defeat
with courage and
blunt force

or a dream that can be
shaken off.

I want a bigger world with
less borders

I want more than
this world can offer.

I want more than
Reality can afford.

So I sit parked in my
sorry car,
the radio
turned all the way
down
licking the salt of
lukewarm French Fries
from my fingertips and I
let the rain tell me stories
of the sky.

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