Angels
They find me here,
a flickering vestige,
under incandescent
pendulum lighting
that was not long ago
strung up and tied
to the center beam
of an old moribund
shoestring warehouse
with the guilty look
of an antiquated aircraft
hangar
where my voice trails
off after my duplicate
self-echo
pacing a smallish splatch
of spotless linoleum
surrounded like an
occupied island by grey
waves of desolate flooring,
all out of breath and mired
in my brood, my legs
dangling over an over
-turned aluminum chair,
waiting to board their
intergalactic alien spacecraft.
Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2019
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