Parking Lots

‘Bad Moon Risin” hits my head,
as I stumble past here, again,
grey sandals
shuffle thru dirt
as they trail behind
it’s tail.

Coarse hair hits my face,
cement graces my figure,
I figure,
let’s have another,
as I trip against time.

Structure collapses over the tar,
stifles its sounds
of nothing at night.
Suddenly it creates treble,

Not so far as humble homes;
not including fixed stables
waves and waves
amidst all those

Divided by change.

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