American Express Parking Lot

[RiverNotch]

Every day I pass a dust-becoming
Prophylactic,
grounding into asphalt like a dead leaf. I imagine a panacean turd, dropped in the middle of the street, then ground up under the heel of the speaker.
Spears of weeds break the sidewalk, 
and the automated teller collects greasy swaths. I have no idea what actually happens at an American Express Parking Lot. Is this like a parking lot in front of...what...an atm? Ugh, this first stanza's experience feels like something that I both know very well and not know a single bit -- and that's not really a bad thing, since I bet it'd disappear once I know what American Express is supposed to be (it's a credit card company, right? so, like, a bank, but not a bank?), or once I get a job.
Nobody stays there.

Leaving the office after the boss had gruffly dismissed me,
I placed two fingers above my head like horns,
charged a middle aged man with glasses,
turned to an ambling, contented crowd
and howled cockeyed that I would cut the hart horns off their heads. I laughed at this stanza, laughed the way I laugh whenever I slip down some stairs, or piss with a bit of pain. The images work, and I think at this point I could connect at a more literal level with the narrative.
It tore me that they were there, but maybe I could make them leave.
But anyway, lovely work.