72 Hours

The concrete ceiling overhead is vast,

a sky of rebar and of leaking grey.

I’m waiting for the heavy trucks to blast

the last remains of sanity away.

A semi-truck hit a puddle by the curb

and soaked my jeans from ankle to the knee.

There’s nothing left to break or to disturb,

no part of sleep that’s looking out for me.

An energy drink can is on its side

filling up with water from the drain.

I’ve got no place left for me to hide

except this dry patch underneath the rain.