Empty Spaces, Or, Waiting for What

The asphalt, cracked and gray,

a map of old oil stains.

Yellow lines, fading,

telling no one where to stay,

or go.

I sat in the car, engine off,

watching.

A plastic bag,

the flimsy kind,

a ghost of someone's lunch,

skittered, snagged on a bent lamppost,

flapped like a trapped bird,

then tore free.

It cartwheeled across the lot,

aimless, weightless,

a brief, frantic dance.

Past the pharmacy door, still locked.

Past the row of silent cars.

My reflection in the glass,

a blurred face,

just another thing waiting

for something to open.