Waiting at the Lot

Staring at the concrete, the past rolls in waves,

each crack a reminder, of joy and of graves.

The laughter that echoed, the heartbreaks so clear,

as I sit and I watch, the weight of it here.

A couple argues near the entrance, sharp words,

each syllable slicing, like sounds of lost birds.

I count the spent moments, all dreams that have passed,

a crumpled soda can, rolling, a shadow cast.