My hair sticks to my cheeks when I whip my head around,
trying to watch all of my sides.
A shopping cart flies across the parking lot
as if posessed, a great hand of wind and rain tricking it into the side of a van,
whose alarm sounds, threatening the thief, the rain, the shopping cart,
all turned over and shaking, now, wheels spinning.
A blurry man with a beard and a stuffed car asks if I need a ride.
This strip mall, a few hooded figures running between their groceries and their trunks,
trying to keep the bread dry, perhaps, trying not to crush the eggs, trying to keep the ice cream
cold. It would stay cold, this night. My shirt soaked straight to my skin, pink and satin,
that felt like a cut, and the rain stinging its walls like peroxide.
A pencil grey cross hatch surrounding everything. A bus in the distance
taking so long, it's name and number like a fog light,
orange, casting sickness across my face.
ALRIGHT, feel bad for my sorry ass.
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