Expiring at 2:15

The left side of my face is a heavy

bag of wet sand from the Novocaine.

I can’t feel my lip, but I can feel

the heat coming off the asphalt.

And there it is. A yellow tongue

licking the windshield.

I try to pull it off, but the paper

is damp and stubborn.

A smear of wet ink stays on my thumb.

I just stand there, drooling slightly,

holding a thirty-dollar debt

in the middle of the afternoon.