in a
darkened
parking lot

sitting under
a street
lamp

with aloneness
on top of
everything

waiting for
someone
or death

and i think
of those i
haven't seen

in a long time
"you still
into bukowski?"

they'd ask
and i'd tell
them, "yes."

feeling
unchanged,
unmoved, stale.

clanking souls
walk by
with their

heads full of
living, getting
on with it.

and i'm sitting,
watching. it all
slides past

and loneliness
bears down.
and my tiny

heart clacks
and clicks
out little dreams.