Parking Lot

Hard to believe the racket geese make, squabbling, 
holding a confab in the dark--pitch dark to him 
padding back to check the lights; yes, the windows 
are dark.
      But that honking down on the pond, like angry 
taxis, stops him: late geese on their way--he thinks-- 
homeward. But geese are home, wherever. A continent. 
Are acting without accomplices; no past
or future to know. That squawky banter is 
an irremediable thing.
                  He makes for his car, the office 
shut down. Now someone passes him. They know each other--
each speaks with mild surprise the other's name, 
no more. And heads his separate way across the dark.