Lester’s lot

the ballad of Lester Littlefield
wide-eyed night bellman is alive and thriving
the smell of parkade concrete
in warm and heavy summer night air
the soft thrum of adult alternative echoing
through the cavernous surfaces
of a hotel lobby
curling dumbbells in the long shadows
of an abandoned fitness centre
doing laps in an empty pool or soaking
in a hot tub under the lights of
office towers beyond a sky light

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