Structural Damage

I’m chewing a heel of day-old rye

and my jaw hinges with a sharp, dry pop.

It’s a souvenir from the lot behind the deli,

a receipt for a pride I couldn't afford.

I walked past the spot this afternoon.

They were bolting a 'No Parking' sign

into the very patch of oil-slicked asphalt

where I learned that being right is a luxury.

I remember the copper flood in my mouth,

the way the air felt after the tires screamed,

leaving me there to count the stars

through the blur of a closing eye.

The lesson wasn't about courage or heart.

It was just the simple physics of the curb—

the world is much harder than your face

and it doesn't care whose spot it is.