Nobody's Coming Back For It

The flatbed was still running when I passed—

no driver, engine pulling low,

hazard lights clicking orange against the last

of the light, the lot beginning to go

dark at the edges. In the bed:

a length of chain, an orange flag laid flat,

pressed down by wind. Nothing else. Instead

of walking on I stood there, just like that,

watching the exhaust rise straight and clean

the way smoke does when there's no weather.

I stood there in the cooling air between

myself and nothing. Held together.