The kid from the line is nineteen and bored

The kid from the line is nineteen and bored,

leaning his spine against the grease trap’s edge.

The alley is teeth and stained concrete,

but he purses his lips and blows a ghost.

It’s a perfect O, a shivering hoop

drifting toward the dry cleaner’s brick.

For three seconds, the world isn't garbage—

just a circle of smoke in a windless slot.

Then the air shifts, the draft takes a bite,

and the ring turns into a tattered rag.

He throws his filter into the drain

and goes back inside to scrub the pans.