Monolith

There is sunlight reflecting
off metallic paint jobs
in a movie theater parking lot,
and I am walking out of the dark
building back into it.

The summer is young
and the wind turbines
are spinning like my wheels
will soon be, heading back for dinner.

On the good days I remember
brief moments of the dark nights
where we all knew there was much
to be improved upon.

The smell of salmon cooking in the pan
while I leave fingerprints on the glass door
coming home to her.

Frames from the film continue spinning
in my head, the different women
in their close ups looking out
at the whole world like they loved everyone.

After we eat we sit in the porch light
while the neighbors all
begin their nightly bullshit.

She lets a bit of gravel
fall from her hand between
the rusted bars that cover up
the storm drain,
and we hear splashes
when it finally hits the water.

In the empty lot on the other side of the gutter,
someone ditched an old refrigerator
without any magnets,
but it was upright like it would be in a kitchen.
I dare her to go open it, and she walks slowly
over reaching for the door.
The handle works and when she turns it the light comes on like it is still receiving power.
She climbs inside it
and the door closes behind her.