Perimeter

The air smells like diesel and wet hay,

the same as the town where I didn't stay.

A flyer for a car wash, taped to the glass,

counts the slow minutes as the trucks pass.

Names I once knew are scribbled in blue,

the same kids I played with, when the world was new.

Behind the dumpster, the corn rows start,

under a streetlamp that breaks the heart.