Those **** things
lurch around each turn
as if they are lost children
who's mother is also lost
in some isle at Costco.

I know those arching
towers of rows
that hold cardboard boxes
reaching to skylights--
where each passing cloud
blinks for me
as I wander wide eye
for Costco brand cat food
hidden somewhere in the back.

*** holes are not the best at digging
but it's impossible for
my town to fill them,
as each one is a reminder
to our people
that we are irreplaceable.

That when time comes
and the clouds find their resting place
we will no longer crowd the isles
of Costco nor will clouds keep
blinking for us.

Instead our personality
will have dug it's trench
a minor engravement
into the cements and asphalt
of which we called our home.

For us they will leave
our history, appraisal
to the life that has thrived
a marker
that there was beauty
before us
and beauty with us.