The Asphalt Metronome

The sun is going down like a bruise.

I’m standing by the sink, waiting for the kettle,

when the sound drifts over the neighbor’s fence—

a dull, rhythmic thud against wood.

It’s the sound of a kid who doesn’t have

a spreadsheet or a mortgage yet.

Just the drive to hit the same square

until his wrists go numb.

I remember that singular, stupid hunger.

Now, the only thing that rattles

is the chain-net of my nerves

whenever the wind catches the screen.