Weather Report

The bus stop bench is a blue plastic tooth

biting into the back of my thigh.

I try to stand, but the hinge is uncouth,

grinding a message I can’t quite deny.

That old jagged line is a zipper of skin

jammed in the works of a heavy, wet day.

I feel the humidity gathering in,

before the first cloud has turned into gray.

It’s a localized storm in the cup of the bone,

a calcium secret that’s starting to flare.

I’m limping on history, stiff and alone,

while everyone else is just breathing the air.