One-Way

The water tower is a silver thumb

pressing down on the grid of the streets.

Driving past it today, the scale felt wrong—

smaller, like a toy left out in the rain.

The vending machine in the gravel lot

hums to itself in the yellow light.

It’s the only thing that stays awake

while the houses pull their blinds.

I used to think Main Street was a canyon.

Now I see the brick is just tired,

and the horizon is too close for comfort.

The gravel crunching under the tires

sounds like a door locking behind me.