Nostalgia does not enter here

they throw rocks at the plate glass windows

which shatter, a sibilant rain of golden shards

and birds, roosting in the shadows, take to their wings

dark feathery darts shooting into a golden dusk

of striated crimson clouds brushed against the amber sunset

the doors are posted, Do Not Enter. A chain puddled

amidst scattered beer cans and an old tattered mattress

silent sentries of abandonment behind a chain linked fence

the links cut and bent away for a forced entry

up the steps, three at a time, into the dark maw

the black windows staring sightless into the night

footsteps echo with their laughter, borne to the dark corners

and white beams bleach away the night inside

where chalkboards hang haphazardly, pried from the wall

and spiders have taken lofty seats for a hushed education

of the written rattle and shhhh of spray cans

they have sex here, as she sometimes balk at such a notion

of another used mattress, her bare thighs against the abrasive fabric

those dreams of the romantic, just that. And their sighs and shudders

are finished in the midst of cheap wine and cigarettes

and good night is under the white halogen street light

outside her father’s house, sitting in the car, the engine running

the radio doing all their talking, as she plays her fingers down his arm

searching in his eyes for her meaning, for her truth, hoping

for a blank white stare of internal denial

instead of that hapless hopeless patented smile.