Echoes From the Chain-Link

The grocery bag is cutting into my wrist,

the milk cartons sweating through the paper.

In the gap between the traffic and a siren,

I hear the hollow, rhythmic thud

of a game happening three blocks over.

It hits the ground and bounces off the brick

of the old laundromat, a lonely metronome

that sounds like a heart being kicked.

It’s a persistent, empty noise.

No voices, no cheering, just that rubber smack

against the stones, counting down the light

until the streetlamps finally buzz to life.