The parking lot –
September afternoon –
The empty drainage pipe sits alone,
its paint cracked, splattered with tar.
The “No Loitering” sign stands defaced
by itself.
The rust from the bolts drips down
and soils the deep red trim
that lines it.
The solitary, black, twisted cable,
protruding out of its safe plastic shelter,
lies mangled in the wilting grass.
The wooden, slanted, rotting electrical pole
is struggling to keep itself standing,
fighting gravity.
The distant radio antennas
stand in the back behind the tall elm,
leaves torn off
by the mighty September winds.
The old yellow cargo truck –
coated in fading, cracked paint –
has just left. Pulled away.
Leaving nothing more than
mere tire tracks on
an empty road.