Nostalgia does not enter here
they throw rocks at the plate glass windows
which shatter, a sibilant rain of golden shards
and birds, roosting in the shadows, take to their wings
dark feathery darts shooting into a golden dusk
of striated crimson clouds brushed against the amber sunset
the doors are posted, Do Not Enter. A chain puddled
amidst scattered beer cans and an old tattered mattress
silent sentries of abandonment behind a chain linked fence
the links cut and bent away for a forced entry
up the steps, three at a time, into the dark maw
the black windows staring sightless into the night
footsteps echo with their laughter, borne to the dark corners
and white beams bleach away the night inside
where chalkboards hang haphazardly, pried from the wall
and spiders have taken lofty seats for a hushed education
of the written rattle and shhhh of spray cans
they have sex here, as she sometimes balk at such a notion
of another used mattress, her bare thighs against the abrasive fabric
those dreams of the romantic, just that. And their sighs and shudders
are finished in the midst of cheap wine and cigarettes
and good night is under the white halogen street light
outside her father’s house, sitting in the car, the engine running
the radio doing all their talking, as she plays her fingers down his arm
searching in his eyes for her meaning, for her truth, hoping
for a blank white stare of internal denial
instead of that hapless hopeless patented smile.
