Permanent Press

The asphalt is sweating under the jack.

The tow truck is a promise that hasn't arrived,

so I’m leaning over my knees,

studying the underside of the park bench.

There’s a wad of peppermint gum

stuck like a barnacle to the wood.

It’s turned the color of a wet sidewalk,

hardened into a map of someone’s bite.

A molar left a crater in the center

where the road grit has settled in.

It’s been there through the snow and the salt,

holding onto its little piece of the world

with a grip I almost envy.