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.