There' s a pale yellow flavor of silence in this parking lot. The facility sits on the back of farmlands tongue, waiting to be kicked to the bottom of the throat or diluted to nothing in saliva. Basketball shorts cling to knees and bellow around man thigh. No one is born here and no one dies, the air too full of e-cigarette vapor to allow for that brand of fragility. The door-close of the man' s morose sedan lights a current to my eyes. They ride it through his tinted window and in-between the words on his prop screen: Finished my deliveries early, be home in forty-five. Electric irritations winds past my ear as the sedan backs up through facility vehicles. It counts its coins all the way east to where sedans go to sleep.