To whom it may concern,
Across the street from my bedroom window a
burned out streep lamp that, until last week,
once shone down in a cataratic haze of sickly
yellow luminescence, now towers lifeless over a
recently vacated mobile home lot. Truth be told,
they never stay. With its gutted out electrical box
for a headstone and various bouquets of weeds,
ruts, broken bottles and cinder blocks strewn
about, this patch of dead earth resembles
nothing less than an immense unkempt grave
lying in wait for the next transient soul to arrive.
It's a foundation made not of concrete but of
wandering opportunities that brings them in
and sends them away, most poor of money, luck,
and life. It saddens me to count myself among
them, but I hold no excuses to absolve myself of
why I'm here, even now, as I sit staring at my
computer screen e-mailing the city a notice
about the burned out street bulb; the day's light
long faded, wrestled below the horizon by
darkness. Finished, I hit send, log out, and find
my way to bed knowing all that's left for me to
do is wait for the reply of a cataractic haze of
sickly yellow luminescence to shine once again
outside my bedroom window at night.
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