what sam built

I. outside

stray carts litter
the lot like
just released
without a ride.
out, but still

drink lids,
shopping bags, cans,
cigarette butts,
cigarette boxes, trampled
brittle leaves,
all trash,
all weathered,
all rolls
with the wind and
across the pavement
until it ends up
under a tire,
under a foot,
or in the gutter.
but some just keeps

near the doors
the sun is forgotten
behind tall stormcloud
grey walls.
cameras nest like
and stare blankly
down upon the living.
one step closer
the doors split open
expectantly, but slow
with the bruising sound
of tired bearings–

another step, the first
inside and the doors
snap back together with
a guillotine’s whoosh
then finality.


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