Under the Overpass

The rain, it stops. Then starts again.

Just a fine mist, barely there.

Three nights. The skin feels thin. A pain

behind the eyes, a hollow stare.

The hiss of tires overhead, a slick, fast sound.

Concrete pillars, dark and stained.

One crack, a wet line, almost profound,

like a tear, meticulously retained.

I walk on, under the low-slung might.

Just me. And the wet. And the hum.

The broken sleep, a kind of dim light.

Not quite here. Not yet numb.