Section 4G

The engine clicked and then it died.

I’ve got nowhere left to hide.

Through the glass, the carts all rattle,

losing some slow, plastic battle.

I forgot the bread. I forgot the salt.

I sit here finding someone to fault.

A grape soda can, flattened and thin,

is trapped by my tire like a metallic skin.

Section 4G is a graveyard of light.

I’m just staying here for the rest of the night.