Parking Lot Culture

Ensconced
like in a womb
of my choosing
(with less judgement
and smoke than the previous),
picnicking shoeless
with a book
and my skirt hiked up for a causal air,
I look at a fractured landscape
through the windshield
-like a billowing Victorian prose
through fuzzy infant-sight.
I nod to another pod dweller
two cars over.
She’s having a burrito
and possibly an existential crisis.

Forecast

Here’s the thing:
it seems I was made to be broken
and my allure is an impossible fix,
what with longevity, inflation, and el niño.
If only I could stop
long enough mid-dervish
to thank him- where else could I learn
how to break free while heartbroken,
how all roads lead to an end?

I will forever couch my emotions
in rocky metaphors
and I will henceforth read weather forecasts
like a tragic romance.

Lunar rise

With a twist
and a heave,
I have the moon
back between
my legs;

we are
airborne and
fancy-free.

In the weeds

It’s too quiet.
I’m in a wrinkled shirt.
I can’t find anything funny
in how the wind has turned away from me.
My jaw cracks, often.
I yawn to fight a panic attack.
Wanting arms around me becomes
too large a goal.
I throw messages to the weeds.
There’s no response.