Monsters and Dust

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Store Policy

Every breath is a gift
that I wanna return,
but I get there five minutes before closing
and the security guard is standing in the doorway,
arms crossed, head shaking slowly from side to side.
I open my mouth and start to point
at the hours posted—
we all know it’s not gonna happen today.
I walk back to my car, dejected,
both of us already covered in a slight layer of snow.
I shimmy in, shivering, turn just the battery on
and push in the tape,
a soundtrack to my dusks,
and don’t run the wipers.
The snow is a thin blanket
that I can’t see through.
I am an empty parking lot,
you are nine hundred cars.
Approximately.