The Whole Parking Lot Loves Lost Souls Who Don’t Drive: An Homage to Your Eyes
As I left for the day, before the day
went missing, I didn’t want my soul
The weekend would not hold wonders.
If I held your gaze early, earlier, and earliest,
the holding didn’t mean my soul was available
to traverse time with you.
Bereft, I left
my office, found my glasses on a rock.
Thereafter, the parking lot
gazed at me
with the parking lot’s overfilled heart.
Thereafter, if we are all spectacles
we are all discovered uselessly atop
a decorative rock with dominion
over a very sensitive lot.
Per Parking Lot Lost and Found precedent, humanity fails in forgetting
to celebrate the cosmic ephemera it finds, fails in failing
to find loss intimate and kind.
Abandoned to the parking lot’s custody, per my instructions:
the article I couldn’t finish today,
the overlooked gaze,
the uselessness of writing something about.
Enlivened by superficial loss, before I lose the day,
I leave my office. From atop any superfluous rock, life opens.
And opens all its eyes.
Lost then found then lost is arrival at a rock.
The rock as a display for jauntily misplaced glasses evokes
your human lashes blinking back a message. Uselessly sane blue
eyes in the back or the front
of your head; uselessly, no one is quite certain
who sees or is seen.
This moment loosens what I know of pupils and irises
as snow falls over and over
The day is in my imaginary rearview mirror.
My article ought to be uselessly about
the parking lot’s foolish patronage of lost souls
being willingly lost before. Before
I die. To do, someday:
Leave the building.
Abide forever on a snow-covered rock–lost to you,
lost to time.
There is no minute–no soul–that comes when I call.
I don’t even own.
I don’t even own ignition.
Love is car-free irony. Love is ice-glass
between vision and more vision and
how I fell over and over.
I remember the glasses to my eyes and gaze, useless, unfulfilled:
the future holds so much love
from such ridiculous sources.
In the crowded soul-palace adjacent to Earth,
otherwise known as Earth:
Soft blue sane forgiveness
telegraphing a reply
In said crowded soul-palace:
my soul, shy and icy. It would like a word.
One day it would like
to abide with you. All the way through
an evening, if the minutes would permit it.
Finally: my soul would like to know if I was there.
If the lot was empty and emanating warmth
when the world–which necessarily includes the parking lot–
started looking through the glasses
to find me.
Amy Poague holds an M.A. in Creative Writing from Eastern Michigan University. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Cabinet of Heed, ISACOUSTIC*, The Mantle, SWWIM Every Day, Really System, Rockvale Review, and Mojave He[art] Review. She is a contributing editor for Barren Magazine.