parallax background

THE WHOLE PARKING LOT LOVES LOST SOULS WHO DON’T DRIVE BY AMY POAGUE

STEVE LACY APOLLO XXI
June 18, 2019
FOUR POEMS BY ANN ELEVEN
June 20, 2019

Poague.The_Whole_Parking_Lot_Reading

 

 

The Whole Parking Lot Loves Lost Souls Who Don’t Drive: An Homage to Your Eyes

 

I.

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.

 

II.

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.

 

III.

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

abandoned gazes.

 

IV.

The day is in my imaginary rearview mirror.

 

My article ought to be uselessly about

the parking lot’s foolish patronage of lost souls

then about

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.

 

V.

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.