Stutter

I moved four states to find a different air.

But the humidity here is the same

as the year the engine died on the interstate.

The park bench is that sick, hospital green.

The paint is curling like a dried leaf.

I know this texture.

I sat here—no, I mean, it feels like I sat here

before I ever lived in this city.

There’s a soda can near the trash.

The dent in the side is a perfect thumb-print.

I’ve already seen it.

I am repeating a sentence I never finished.