I’d write poems to stacks
of cement blocks outside
gas stations and
poems for parking lot after parking
lot after parking lot, close the trunk with loaded
groceries.
I’d write poems for those red delicious apples, waxed
up and
tasteless,
and poems for motel beds and airport walkways and poems
for the quotidian corporate resemblance of America and I’d write
those poems.
But I can’t.
And sooner or later, the poets will stop, and the
parking lots will always
grow.
