Wet Asphalt Waiting

Rain scatters on slick asphalt,

yellow lines bleeding, edges halt.

Puddles mirror fractured light,

streetlamps flicker in the night.

A car speeds past—wet spray flies,

soaking shoes, catching surprise.

Empty space, a waiting place,

wet asphalt slicks with a cold embrace.

Oil and rain mix sharp and raw,

a scent that sticks beneath the thaw.

I stand soaked, still, a quiet plot—

a moment trapped inside this lot.