She stands at the edge
watching those below.
They rush toward picnic benches,
for places in line.
She lays her hands on
the cool guardrail,
feels her nails click
on the metal bar.
Buildings stand tall before her.
Streets collect wind from
the ocean, the smell of salt
and the dampened air is
a crisp apple on her tongue.
Neon signs create a blurry luminescence,
change faces into impressions.
She imagines they are spirits,
beings searching for a final
parking lot.
(Fall '08)
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