Parking Lot

The parking lot No seagulls are flying high today, sitting on roofs and shrieking to each other, and sometimes there is a clash of wings There are no ships at anchorage in the bay waiting for a pilot on this day of stillness under a grey sky and lacklustre clouds there is no promise of a better tomorrow. The supermarket’s parking lot is looking down at a cemetery here we have the mainstay of human life the price of food and the cost of a funeral, food is needed, and death is avoided. People walking among gravestones, some are humble some are posh with the picture of the deceased on. None of these matters in the long run; the supermarket will close and move somewhere else, the death’s place will be ploughed under and potatoes planted, time is a sticking plaster when the plaster falls off, death has a plot out of town next door to the glorious new supermarket