The Drawbridge

The radiator’s cooking a scent like burnt fruit,

trapped in the shadow of a box-truck’s glute.

The bridge is up high, a rusted steel jaw,

waiting on a barge to fulfill some old law.

I look at the ash on the coffee lid’s rim,

the chances of calling my sister are slim.

Twenty-one days since I picked up the phone,

stuck in this heat and this silence alone.