OPEN

Audrey Lewis

friday, evening, early spring darkness:

the sign for the discoteca buzzes,

cliché flicking in and out of existence.

I pass by and I remember a car ride.

listening to the radio. a soothing voice 

telling me that neon signs

are made by hand, every one.

but that is wrong, I was the one speaking,

not the radio; and time flickers too,

false memories curling into each other:

no, I remember now,

not a car at all but a sidewalk,

headphones on, podcast explaining

the craftsmanship of neon, or argon,

and the slow loss

of these shimmering lights.