The Seventy-Second Hour

The coffee is just a vibration now,

a humming in the teeth that doesn't wake the brain.

I walked until the ceiling fan stopped following me

and ended up under the concrete ribs of the bypass.

The rain is indecisive.

It starts with a frantic, drumming weight

and then cuts out like a bad connection,

leaving the air thick with the smell of wet oil.

I watched the cars go by on the upper deck,

their tires licking the asphalt with long, black tongues.

Each one is headed somewhere with a bed

while I’m just standing in the dry spot,

waiting for my heart to slow down.