Under Orders

I am more than tired. I am exhausted. The Gig For All Seasons requires that I read 120 to 160 essays by fifth graders PER DAY. And score them. Think about that for awhile.

In the mean time, Joe (whom nobody cares about) has exorciated me to write. So here are notes for a new poem about the place where I work, a mall on the West side of Charlotte that has been dying on the vine for two decades. It is on the side of a hill, and from the edge of the crumbling parking lot, you can see the downtown skyline, which the mall itself pre-dates.

It's gonna be called, um, er, I don't know, say THE PLACE I AM. Nah. But something like that. Maybe.



I had a job once
Guarding an un-built coliseum
Patrolling a scraped-clean moonscape
That died absurdly into a summer-green treeline.
I joked that my job was to make sure
No one stole the stadium.
It was a good enough joke, and funny at the time.
But it was also wrong.

This is what the theft of place feels like.
This is what the theft of place feels like.


So I wrote something. Feel better? To be continued.