Curbside

The hydraulic groan is three streets down,

a metal mouth for the sins of the town.

I’m standing here in my socks and my shame,

while the Tuesday morning plays its game.

The hallway is thick with the scent of the old,

of coffee grounds and a rind growing mold.

Under the lid, the egg carton sits flat,

gray and soggy as a drowned harbor rat.

I missed the window, I missed the light,

now I’m stuck with the scraps of the night.