The Chain

The neighbor's gate has a rhythm.

A heavy, iron sound.

It clicks and holds and waits

to swing back to the ground.

The meeting is tomorrow at ten.

I can feel the grease on the track.

The smell of the oil and the rust.

There’s no way to turn the car back.

The bar is tight against my legs.

A cold, clicking weight.

We’re at the top of the pull

where the sky begins to wait.