Payload

It takes up the whole curb.

I have to step into the standing water

where the wrappers float like drowned skin.

The metal gives a long, dry scream—

the brakes letting go of the pressure.

I’m eye-level with the lug nuts,

caked in a salt-crust and gray sludge.

On the back door, a padlock

swings on a chain,

beating against the steel,

hollow and orange with rust.