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Abstract

onks derail the speedy train of melancholic thoughts. My concentration shifts to ponder the motivation for such alarm.The horn blows, and so does the driver. I chuckle and my aggravation dissipates, back to the exhaust fumes that congregate — I light another.Another song, by request, says the D.J. I hear the familiar beat, and I smile — Laid Back in my seat.I stare up at the burn holes in the ceiling. Wishin’ for — A Gang Of Tanqueray And A Fat Ass J. To vibe with the flow I am feelin’.Winter slushy puddles reflect waves of neon red lights, I wonder if Roxanne is all right. The Police roam the streets, for the night is busy.Surfing through the radio waves, car insurance ads aren’t pleasing to the parking lot fumes. I find A Soul To Squeeze.Who knew Flea could slap a bass with such God-like expertise? I was always fond of strong hands, and a man with rhythm.I found a set of hands that plays my heartstrings to a lover’s sonnet. Speaking of — I wonder if he’s close to being done yet?He’s working late tonight, the parking lot — a ghost town. They Say I’m Crazy, But It Takes All My Time, but It’s Alright.More tunes to ease my impatient mind. Before you judge, You Don’t How It Feels To Be Me — but I can be Petty.I am grateful for my Workin’ Man, no need to be in a Rush. It’s Something Unpredictable, but I am Having The Time Of

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My Life.I pay homage to unused envelopes, FM Radio, and mundane moments. They serve a great purpose, for The Parking Lot Poet.<figure id="f880"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*qh8L2xysy4xbDSLnZomk3g.jpeg"><figcaption>personal image taken by Author, my envelope poem written from the parking lot. Yes, I know handwriting looks like a madman’s scribbles. haha…</figcaption></figure><h2 id="3373">© Anna V — 2024</h2>Shout out to The Editors of my favorite poetry pub — Write Under The Moon — <a href="undefined">Claire Kelly</a>, <a href="undefined">Edward Swafford</a>, <a href="undefined">Dave Logan</a>, and the others involved in keeping the flow running so smoothly. My work and I have a home here, and I am so grateful.Side Note — I wrote this little diddy on some old envelopes I found in the glove box. While I waited for the hubby to finish up his orders for the night. The kids were enjoying their weekend fun, so I took advantage of the rare moment alone. I had been in a “mood” but I was lifted by old beloved songs. This poem is what came from seizing the moment.For fun, 4,000 points to the reader who guesses some of the songs and the bands that created them. Judging by the age group of my readers, I think this will be a fun game to play — I double-dog-dare y'all. :)HINT — The song lyrics and some of the band names are written with the first letter capitalized.</article></body>

The Parking Lot Poet

FM Radio muse, unused envelopes, & mundane moments.

image shared and edited by the Author using Canva Pro

Exhaust fumes congregate on a frigid Saturday night.

This stale, cracked parking lot is now the hot spot. A happenin’ place to be. I ignite a cigarette to belong.

Puff clouds of nicotine exhaled from my lungs, join the gas pipe ghosts. I hope they’re having fun.

I watch them awkwardly, Say It Ain’t So, jams on the radio. I turn it up to drown out the sound of the busy street.

Catching the end, the station shifts into a Black Hole Sun. I drift with the melodic rays, inviting the warm welcome.

No One Sings Like him Anymore, I daze off remembering a fallen hero. Off in the distance, an orange vest fellow assists an elderly shopper.

One by one he carefully places each bag in the trunk. Her groceries for the month.

Good deeds through the services of humble men and women. I remember when my life encircled around greater purposes.

Disgruntled honks derail the speedy train of melancholic thoughts. My concentration shifts to ponder the motivation for such alarm.

The horn blows, and so does the driver. I chuckle and my aggravation dissipates, back to the exhaust fumes that congregate — I light another.

Another song, by request, says the D.J. I hear the familiar beat, and I smile — Laid Back in my seat.

I stare up at the burn holes in the ceiling. Wishin’ for — A Gang Of Tanqueray And A Fat Ass J. To vibe with the flow I am feelin’.

Winter slushy puddles reflect waves of neon red lights, I wonder if Roxanne is all right. The Police roam the streets, for the night is busy.

Surfing through the radio waves, car insurance ads aren’t pleasing to the parking lot fumes. I find A Soul To Squeeze.

Who knew Flea could slap a bass with such God-like expertise? I was always fond of strong hands, and a man with rhythm.

I found a set of hands that plays my heartstrings to a lover’s sonnet. Speaking of — I wonder if he’s close to being done yet?

He’s working late tonight, the parking lot — a ghost town. They Say I’m Crazy, But It Takes All My Time, but It’s Alright.

More tunes to ease my impatient mind. Before you judge, You Don’t How It Feels To Be Me — but I can be Petty.

I am grateful for my Workin’ Man, no need to be in a Rush. It’s Something Unpredictable, but I am Having The Time Of My Life.

I pay homage to unused envelopes, FM Radio, and mundane moments. They serve a great purpose, for The Parking Lot Poet.

personal image taken by Author, my envelope poem written from the parking lot. Yes, I know handwriting looks like a madman’s scribbles. haha…

Shout out to The Editors of my favorite poetry pub — Write Under The Moon — Claire Kelly, Edward Swafford, Dave Logan, and the others involved in keeping the flow running so smoothly. My work and I have a home here, and I am so grateful.

Side Note — I wrote this little diddy on some old envelopes I found in the glove box. While I waited for the hubby to finish up his orders for the night. The kids were enjoying their weekend fun, so I took advantage of the rare moment alone. I had been in a “mood” but I was lifted by old beloved songs. This poem is what came from seizing the moment.

For fun, 4,000 points to the reader who guesses some of the songs and the bands that created them. Judging by the age group of my readers, I think this will be a fun game to play — I double-dog-dare y'all. :)

HINT — The song lyrics and some of the band names are written with the first letter capitalized.