Air Intake

The bus was a block away and I ran,

my boots slipping on the salted slush.

I felt it then—the metallic rattle,

a loose screw shaking behind my ribs.

It’s a cold, thin fire that tastes like pennies.

I leaned against the plexiglass stop,

watching the ember of my last smoke

flare bright and angry before I crushed it.

My body is tired of the way I treat it,

like a house I’m only renting for the view

while I let the pipes freeze

and the windows rattle in the draft.