The Corolla leans hard into the cloverleaf

The Corolla leans hard into the cloverleaf

and I hear it—the dull thud

of metal meeting plastic in the dark.

I reached under the seat later,

past the crumpled napkins and the straw,

and pulled out that four-pound sash weight.

A relic from the window in the third-floor walk-up.

It’s blooming with orange rot now,

leaving a grit of rust on the floor mats.

I don't know why I carried it this far.

It just sits there,

staining the carpet with its dust.