Last Missions No whistling down the vacant corridors of deserted malls. A gestural flim-flam enlightens more than recognized as do singular imprints that can not be read or clogging of sluices or thorns and burrs or flowers shredded or parrots that refuse to speak and the last missions that never were; and not alone and not indifferent abandoned stone grave as shrouded furniture.
Gargoyles, Licensees, and Planes Recycled, blown-up Christmas cards. Tote bags mislaid. Lipstick and rouge garishly laid on. A misapplication to a beauty school. A missed appointment at a hair salon. Riddled with misgiving a charismatic smile as down the hall armed personnel wait. Baggage lines - stranded someone complains, `it's hell.' How quiet passages can be. The interdiction of people, but maybe, just maybe, it will all come about. Above, gargoyles abut, below, licensees are bothered, and the planes, planes - that was expected. Nobody will have left. The waiting areas filled, stairs emptied.