October’s days scurry across
parking lots,
between cars, to a shopping
center
filled to the top with pretty
kitten calendars.
They seek the lofty artist who
sculpted
their hours, birthing new myths
each second,
chiseling rough minutes into his
own.
He’s not by a sundial in museum
glass
or near the malfunctioning
clocks
unwinding their disembodied
arms.
October hides behind brown
dumpsters
lighting the weeks, taking hits
off the crystal pipe of the
future.
He’s been obsessed with
immortality
since April dropped in at his
studio,
hooking him on its snake eaten
glow.
She’s skipped away on butterfly
feet.
He puffs toward her, but falls
into empty
stores, flattens boxes wherever
he goes.