I look across the parking lot and what do I see?
Smoked glass windows with reflections of me.
Shoppers shuffle silently under clouds of glum;
I’m outside looking into my brown bag of rum.
Neon attacks gloaming as daylight starts to leave,
Bag boy thinks shenanigans on this hot summer’s eve.
First the House-of-Hong sign sputters itself alight;
Then all the other glare starts to rail against the night.
At this first broach by evening my memories turn to ghosts
Who feared the Inquisition and its Spanish-speaking hosts.
I talk out loud about them, but it’s mostly up my sleeve,
I can’t seem to make them say what it is that they believe.
My head sits on its pencil neck, my frame is nice and lean,
I tote my loot in plastic bags across the vanished green.