Main Line

The air is a wool blanket soaked in grease.

The man from the city uses a wrench

the size of my forearm to crack the nut.

The water doesn't just flow; it erupts.

A landslide of gray-white pressure

chewing at the trash in the gutter.

The iron cap sits on the concrete,

rusted and round, a heavy crown

left behind while the street finally screams

under the cold, wet weight of it all.