laughing at my nightfall 
yo, Issa 
you feel me? 

Parking Lot

There’s a corner where I sit to watch twilight twice a day with a smoke and a steaming cup of coffee. Across from my corner is a colossal dying tree, so sick I can’t tell you what kind. Every limb is decayed, with the only life a lonely vine swallowing its hallowing trunk. In the evenings a venue of vultures sits along the tree tips. They watch me like they’re planning a wake. Tonight, I hear a crack, look up and they’re scared shitless, falling and flapping, a huge limb crashing, just missing the power line above me. I imagine something like this is going to be my death poem or, at the very least, included in my obit.

Bio: E. L. Blizzard