The asphalt is soft under heatshimmered air

The asphalt is soft under heat-shimmered air,

as I walk to the edge of the lot.

I’m looking for money that isn't quite there,

a check that the system forgot.

I pull at the handle, the hinges are tight,

expecting a white-paper prize.

But the belly is dark as a cellar at night,

just a void for my narrowing eyes.

A spider has left a small sac in the back,

a bundle of silk and of grit.

The metal lid falls with a hollow-out clack,

and that’s all I’m getting of it.