dear Edgar Allan Poe

it's an Edgar Allan Poe

construct,

stuck in my brain.

the parking 

garage,

going down and down,

further

and further down the concrete

drain.

the fluorescent lights

give no hope,

nor do the painted

numbers and signs.

the arrows

pointing in all directions.

the thinning air.

what if the earth

shakes,

or a bomb lands, or there's

been some

engineering mistake

that finally fails.

what then

dear Edgar Allan Poe?

what hell.