The awning stretches forward,
thin steel bones,
holding the weight of absence.
A cracked line of pavement,
its edges curling upward,
a slow retreat
from purpose.

Weeds twist
between fractures,
their stubborn green
cutting through the gray,
a quiet defiance
unnoticed,
persistent.

The sky folds low,
soft with clouds—
no sun,
only a dim light
slipping across the surface,
settling into shadow.

What was here
is no longer here,
yet the space remembers,
waiting,
its silence
a language we
cannot yet speak.

Mount Laurel, New Jersey