The Far End

It is dark out here. The platform stops at a bench, and past the bench is the lot.

In the lot a hand truck stands stacked with bagged ice, and the top bag has split and run across the concrete. Leaves are banked along the front of the ice house, up to the sill, patted down in one place. The door is not locked, only stuck. The compressor hums on the other side of the wall.

The lot lights flicker once, then twice, then once. You find your lips moving. You have been counting since you got here.

The bar across the lot has its back door propped open with a crate. It is June in there.

If you wrote down SPLIT, your pockets weigh the same.