Parking Lots

The world is swirling with nearly
Inestimable, uncountable
Minuscule events, tallying

And reshaping the summable
Whole of every extra moment,
All the trash and dust flickering

Past a grocery store entrance
In any given desert town
On any random, windy day

As someone pushes a cart out
In which condensation dribbles
From the misted vegetables

Now cinched in see-through plastic bags
Under a cloudless sky hiding
The dark and stars with dusty blue,

The dark itself only hiding
A dozen or more rogue planets
Booted from their stellar systems

For every observable star,
Trillions lost in one galaxy,
Each rich with minuscule events.