If I Walk Through I Think

The parking lot doesn’t want me
Because I’m not a car
But the parking lot doesn’t mind
If I walk through I think
Sunday morning the parking lot
Showed me what it could do
Putting a scraggly-looking girl
Smoking a cigarette
On the sidewalk when I walked by
And a high-fashion girl
Walked past me diagonally
Neither one looked at me
And the parking lot said nothing
But it had done enough
Even if it doesn’t want me
Because I’m not a car
I think sometimes I make it smile

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The real life version of this scraggly bit of writing
has a little watercolor illustration next to it
in my notebook and now this blog version has a
photograph so it is illustrated, too.



Some parking lots are like
passages between worlds

S.N.O.B. at Champagne and Heels


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A Beard Tangled With Headphones