By: Andrew Glikin-Gusinsky
These Hudson Valley parking lots are always the same.
They're always dirt and gravel,
Mud and puddles.
In a month and a half they'll freeze over.
People forget that once you get fifty-five miles north of Manhattan,
You might as well be in Ohio.
Ohio has its charm, so people say anyway.
If it's anything like Poughkeepsie,
It's understandable why.
There is a comfort that lies,
Within the little houses that line the streets.
Their unassuming forms slumber lazily,
Their windows project soft, amber light,
Not unlike the jack-o-lanterns,
That smile menacingly from their porches.
"You got a light?"
One more cup of coffee,
To go with the fourth cigarette of the hour.
It's drank in the parking lot,
From one of those paper cups,
The kind with the pseudo-Greek motifs,
Which may or may not exist in Ohio.
A five ought to cover it,
Not much for shelter after all.
This diner is a modern oasis.
Its awning serves as a communal umbrella.
Shielding passing pilgrims,
From the cold October rain,
Which rustles and moistens the dying leaves.
