Level 4

The air in the stairwell tastes like old concrete

and the exhaust of a thousand departures.

I’ve walked every row of Level 4 twice now,

fob clicking against my thigh like a desperate heart,

but the lights won't flash.

I passed a minivan where a woman sat alone,

holding a paper-wrapped burger with both hands.

She wasn't eating. She was just letting the salt

from her face drip onto the bun,

staring at the dash as if it held a map out of here.

Down on the asphalt, the yellow sodium light

hits a puddle of oil and turns it into a bruise.

I can’t remember which door I came through

or whose name I was whispering

when I turned the engine off.