by LYNDAL TURNER
There is a place that exists only in darkness,
where the streetlights’ shallow pools don’t touch,
and the cars we’ve made crouch in the space we’ve made for them.
The arc of their backs glitter with tears.
A grey-toned clock mimes silently on the dashboard.
There is no weather here. Only the barely perceptible
buffet and drag of other cars, sweeping sounds,
the persistent mouthfeel of yet another fast-food dinner,
dregs left curdling in the door. We are not expected:
No one waits.
In this anywhere we are a Prometheus,
sentenced to see the lights go on endlessly in others’ living rooms.
Out here, life is coloured pixels, a flicker and pulse
held apart by advertisements for fried chicken,
and a dark-coated man walked by a wet dog.
Yanny or Laurel depending on the day.