Zone 4

The doctor said I need to rest.

I walked out to the curb

where the slush is turning to a black paste

under the tires of the sedan.

The envelope is tucked tight

beneath the rubber blade.

A bright, synthetic yellow

shielded by a plastic skin

that clings to the glass like a leech.

I have to peel it off with my nails.

Eight hours of my life

sold to the city for a mistake

made while I was being told

that my heart is beating too fast.