Collateral

The fluorescent tubes hum a flat note

above the rows of generic plastic.

Nine o'clock on a Sunday.

The weekend is a collapsed lung.

I touch the crinkle of the cellophane

wrapped tight around a car

that shouldn't cost ten dollars.

His face earlier was a map

of a country I kept promising to visit.

I pick the one with the crooked wheels.

It’s the only way to pay

for the hours I spent saying later.