Zero Percent

The corner of 4th is a humid trap

and the bars are locking the doors.

I was halfway through the digital map

when the screen went into the floors.

A black void where the blue dot lived,

leaving me the long way home.

The night is a debt that won't be forgived

under a dark and airless dome.

I see my face in the dead glass,

a ghost in a plastic frame.

Watching the empty taxis pass

and forgetting my own name.