Stall

The sky is the color of a wet sidewalk.

I’m staying in the driver's seat

because this shirt is the only one

without a coffee stain or a frayed hem.

A seagull is wrestling a greasy wrapper

in the slot next to mine.

It tugs at the paper, feet skidding

on the gray asphalt.

The concrete bollard is losing its yellow skin,

flaking off in scales.

We’re all just waiting for the clouds

to break so we can pretend

we’re going somewhere else.