Parking Garage

The quiet here
surprises me.

Less than a mile away,
Rush hour is gearing up

But here, on the ground floor
beneath tons of concrete

I almost hear
The kind of quiet that greets
the first morning
of camping

The patient quiet of glass
supporting the
heavier-by-the-second lean
of a young child
held between gasp and gravity.

A floor above, a wind shuttlecocks its
way east, followed by an engine’s soft whirr.
But when, beneath tires,
A metal grate exhales
not quite a crack, not quite a cough,

and the muscle-memory of aging suburban
planning and investor initiative,
restores the equilibrium of this place.
Yet I hear my own voice, clear as a bell,
the air too still to allow a second echo.

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