I wait for you outside the glory of the warehouse’s light.
It’s snowing. You are several years late.
The snow’s impetigo is thick at the mouth of the parking lot.
The sky is full of antibiotic ointment the earth can’t afford.
A pastel text alerts me: God’s yacht anchored
in my overdraft fee. I wonder: did I buy enough
to be forgiven? Through you, with you,
in you, I once met a salesman with a mosaic for a face.
You are several years late. I’m waiting in the parking lot
to meet him again.
James Thad is a poet and freelance writer from New York. James’ poems have been published in mutiny! magazine and Divot journal. Follow James on twitter @jamesthad1.