Underpass Drip

Three nights a blur, then the grey morning broke

over concrete, slick with a false rain.

The world felt thin, a joke

I didn't get, just endless pain.

Under the bridge, the exhaust fumes bite,

like rust on my tongue, a metal taste.

The rain would start, then stop its blight,

a tease of wet, then a dry waste.

The sound of tires, a dull, droning hum,

overhead, a constant, low, dark growl.

My mind, a numb, unfocused sum,

just waiting for the final howl.

And I walked on, under the patchy wet,

feeling the sleep debt, something I couldn't forget.