Idle

The seagull has the handle of the CVS bag

clamped in its yellow beak,

dragging it over the oil-stained asphalt.

There is a crust of bread inside,

and the bird is ready to fight the wind for it.

I’ve been sitting in the driver’s seat

for twenty minutes because the house

is too small for the things I need to say.

In the corner of the parking stall,

an oil slick catches the overhead light,

shimmering like a bruise.

The engine is off.

The heat is leaving the vents.