At some point

Every day,

The spot is empty,

Curious versions of vacancy leaning more

 And more towards optimism.

As the sun-dial silently strikes,

And professes from it’s bellows,

A resounding nothing.

Meaning something.

It isn’t ever empty or full because of its relative proximity to the

Equator

Or

Some nearby front door.

 Because it is equal distance from both.

But after that initial time

Of being empty,

Whilst running on fumes,

Whilst watching dragons fly,

Its two faded white boundaries,

May be

Painted

Over

&

Over

Again.

Never withstanding the elements for very long.

Inside these

Perpendicular penitentiaries

(That have no bars)

These barriers that corral  sleeping cars like

Animals under a tranquil spell.

Placed by a wizard in a white coat.

 Many invisible tethered horses,

Inevitably will whine as their metallic  hooves

Crush bottle-caps,

&

Stomp out fires

&

Swat at the swarms of poisonous flies,

 That surround the

Tiny unnamed lakes of oil.

That will know evaporation long before they know exploration,

And that have the uncanny  ability,

To change color like

A brilliant reptile,

Or a science-class prism.

There are other peculiar happenings,

Inside those two white lines.

After no certain amount of traffic

Casually comes

&

Goes,

&

As the afternoon noisily  buzzes…towards infinity.

And the cicadas gaily sing along…towards infinity.

Some tentative residents

Who stare from closed windows,

(Locked of course)

Imagine eggs,

Scrambled or otherwise,

Burning on that hot  ground,

Providing a dirty,

But necessary breakfast.

(Minus the pancakes)

As they selfishly keep their own eggs to themselves,

Tucked away in pastel crates,

Pastel cribs that comfortably seat two dozen.

Two dozen individual  conundrums.

Seated in that pink auditorium,

Made mostly of Styrofoam.

Mostly providing puns and the occasional

Yolk.

And then the spacial parking spot is  partially on it’s own again,

As a few casual coins subsequently join the asphalt dinner party.

Circular traces of Copper and Nickel are reluctantly abundant here,

In an otherwise periodic sea of ultra-violence

&

 Motor-oil

&

Turmoil.

Powerless power-lines that tower overhead like nesting condors,

Welcome the tiny currency.

As the new guests to the space.

As the new ghosts to the space.

They are  both the rent and the

Tenants of this space,

And the penance of the parking lot.

(This new world)

Accompanied only by  an army  of ants.

And ministries of microscopic gravel

(Who are ordained in both diplomacy, and geology)

That  fervently protects  this fortune,

This good fortune,

From beast and

Foot alike.

Until a  passing grasshopper becomes complacent.

This fortunate coinage.

Gaining convection as they bake at high noon,

Gaining momentum as they bake at high noon.

Providing more protein than any

Imaginary egg,

Scrambled or otherwise.