It. Is. Happening.

He tore the paper bag
into long brown strips,
and lay them over the railing,
like fish out to cure in the sun.
They dried, twisted, and some blew
away in the breeze.

He kicked the rusted spark plug
through the parking lot,
where the Sears used to be,
before it was a Books-A-Million,
and a Toys R Us,
and an Old Country Buffet,
and whatever else.
Finally, he was bored of it.

Sometimes, he would look at me,
slowly, deliberately, and say:
"It. Is. Happening."