Second Degree

I waited forty minutes for a bus

that never came, while the hole

in the shelter roof let the noon light

sharpen its teeth against my neck.

Now, at six, the polyester of my work shirt

has fused with the fluid in my pores.

I pull it off and the sound is wet,

like peeling tape from a damp box.

I stand in front of the mirror,

a raw, pulsing map of a wasted day,

except for the one cool, white stripe

where the watch strap kept the world away.