Parking Lot - Poem by Stephen Sandy
Hard to believe the racket geese make, squabbling,
holding a confab in the dark--pitch dark to him
padding back to check the lights; yes, the windows
But that honking down on the pond, like angry
taxis, stops him: late geese on their way--he thinks--
homeward. But geese are home, wherever. A continent.
Are acting without accomplices; no past
or future to know. That squawky banter is
an irremediable thing.
He makes for his car, the office
shut down. Now someone passes him. They know each other--
each speaks with mild surprise the other's name,
no more. And heads his separate way across the dark.
Comments about Parking Lot by Stephen Sandy
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You