Dusk spilled like weak tea across the lot

Dusk spilled like weak tea across the lot,

the air gone thin and cold, a forgotten spot.

And there it was, on its side, a chrome husk,

overturned, catching the last of the light through the dusk.

One wheel, a bent, impossible thing,

still trying, trying, to sing

some last, quiet song of motion, though

it just spun there, where dead leaves grow.

Filled to the brim with brown, brittle fall,

it held nothing useful, nothing at all.

Just an empty promise, tipped over, askew,

like a life suddenly done, or a promise untrue.

I just stood there, watching its useless grace,

feeling the ache of that abandoned place.

Trying to remember where I left my own damn self.

On some other curb, or perhaps on a shelf.