Holding Pattern

The milk is sweating on the passenger floor,

a plastic gallon of lukewarm regret.

I’ve been sitting in the driver’s seat

waiting for a mood I haven't found yet.

Across the asphalt, a stray shopping cart

is drifting on its own wobbly wheel.

It’s making a slow, metallic beeline

for my fender, with a hunger that feels real.

In the puddle by the front tire,

a rainbow slick of leaked oil and rain

swirls like a dying empire

trying to flush itself down the drain.