• As I drive eastbound through the parking lot
    the radio announcer calls a highway,
    I look up at the sky
    so to keep my eyes from being bored.
    The sun did not yet crack the concrete and steel horizon;
    thus was the world still painted with a hazy indigo and blue.
    A cold front was coming in,
    its banner of thin and ugly clouds
    weary, worn, and not triumphant like its brother wind from March.

    As the sun groggily rose to meet those stuck in the parking lot,
    the clouds took on a strange, ugly, sickening pallor.
    The sun's light cast a deep pink hue against the gray clouds,
    wilted and clumped like lint on an azure sieve.
    Patches of yellowish white dotted the gray,
    as if clouds were capable of having mold.

    As the cars ahead left their parking spots
    and crawled forward,
    I start to shudder, sighing to myself -

    "It's only Tuesday."