You get to work early,
pull up into the school’s empty parking lot.
Three street lamps shine their pale glow onto dark asphalt.
The sun hides
behind some blue-black clouds
behind an oft-forgotten portable.
Your car eases into the same spot you always park in:
five east of the planter with the sword ferns.
Its door makes a soft sound as you open it;
it sounds like how you feel when you stretch your quad after a jog.
You walk across the lot, travel mug of coffee in hand.
Crow caws echo off the brick facade of the school,
a faint twee from a tree behind you.
You stop, stand in the middle of the asphalt sea.
It’s cold— not heavy-jacket cold, but hug-your-ribs cold.
After a minute or so, you start walking again.
You get out your key, slip it in the lock like a dagger into your victim’s back.
You think about how improbable it would have been
to actually pass the stealth check.
You smile, shake your head, go inside.