Mist-sweat mixture, after midnight. There are too many people in the world, but none to be found now.
Solo sprinter, passed by solitary drivers, runs roads and routes; owns them well past rush hour. Stops to breathe and view a cross-highway consumer center.
There is a beauty, a perfection, in the neon-luminescence blurred by fog and undisturbed by the crush and inconsideration of buyers and spenders. The allure of jewel-glowing signs and logos; unmet, unfulfilled purposes.
Traveler, crouched on curb, distant, stares as kingdom offers goods and glow to absent citizens.
Rested, runner hopes God will take everyone back with the late-night, streetlight-yellow mists, so that it will always be like this.
This is the West Goshen Plaza, empty, under a fine, light rain.
