Level P4

The screen is a mocking shade of red,

blinking its judgment at my empty account.

Behind me, a sedan pulses its headlights,

a heartbeat of frustration in the dark.

The concrete is slick with rainbows of oil,

shimmering under the sulfur-yellow lamps

that hum like a hive of angry bees.

Everything here is designed to keep you,

to tax the grief before you can leave.

I look at the crumpled bills in the tray,

the lint and the useless copper.

The barrier arm stays down,

a stiff, white limb

blocking the way to the street.