Strip Mall

Every time I ride past the

strip mall I remember a

happy sort of boredom,

waiting for you to finish up

 

so we could buy beer, so

we could get the fuck

outta dodge and into each

others arms. I would

 

count the lines in the

parking lot, watching

them move faster than

the speed of light, away

 

from this abomination

of capitalism, these

corporate hovels overrun

with intransigent pricing;

 

the staging ground for

the class war. I would sit

in my bombed out old

Wannabe pimpmobile,

 

reclining against the

coffin cushion bench seat

playing with the radio

dial until the music

 

began to sound decent.

It never happened. It all

seems like such a long

time ago, the only images

 

flush in my memory are

the threadbare strip mall

and your smile when you

strolled out of work.

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