Just beyond the black iron fence
a haze settles on a parking lot
lit with the ghastly orange glow
of the old street lamps that
tower like rusted butlers.

I crack my window
and billow a gray cloud
that swirls amongst a
***** mist.

The butlers’ bulbs buzz mechanically.
The fog grows thicker.
Amidst it the parking meters
take shape of  metal tombstones,
pale in the darkness
beyond the glow.

I wonder how they died—
they beneath the tombstones.
This place—this city, have you—
boils to the brim with people,
with so many recipes for tragedy;
it’s no wonder they put tombstones
in parking lots.