Sonnet to the Factory Parking Lot
Asphalt vacancy, sectioned by ghost lines, with smudged oil rainbows of puddled squalor and litter along linked fenced confines, this bereft expanse repels dawn’s color. Every morn, cars align in succession weary proles steer in ritual commute. Empty souls grip wheels, white knuckled tension, steeled against numbness of dead-end pursuit. All day long, moored vehicles park idle, stowed in barren tracts of nested order, silent and still but for shadow cycles, while within, hours march dreams to dull slaughter. Leave amid dusk’s veiled gloom; it’s understood, we plebes must return, or clock out for good.