Parking Lot

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
are dark.
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.

by Stephen Sandy

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