Walking Back to the Car
After dinner, we file into the parking lot.
Full of food and tired of talk,
We are silent except for Sam’s flip flops.
A car sits in almost every spot.
Stars wait, covered by glowing grey ink
As harsh white street lamps buzz and blink.
Moist misty breeze jostles nearby palm trees,
Pushing dew to hitchhike my blue jacket sleeves.
Laurie leads over the asphalt canvas
Sideways, inches from damp door handles.
An old industrial fan groans at us,
Crying, dripping dirt-brown eyeliner.
Far off traffic hums with muttering bums,
And behind us glows the diner.