Iron in the Mouth

The 402 didn't want to stop.

I saw the driver’s eyes in the mirror,

hard as pebbles,

so I hauled my work boots over the curb.

My lungs are a pair of wet sponges now.

Sitting on the blue plastic,

the salt stains on my hems are drying white.

My tongue finds that penny-taste,

the warm, sharp leak of being too late

and pushing anyway.