The gate clicks a metal tooth in a lock

The gate clicks, a metal tooth in a lock.

I’m clutching a box of generic sugar rounds,

late for the sale, my phone a frantic clock

buzzing against my hip with group chat sounds.

The floor wax is a heavy, lemon fog.

Through the oak of 204, a muffled voice

drags 1914 through a dusty catalog.

I stand in the silence of someone else's choice.