The 1:05 Local

The vending machine is out of everything good

but I stare at the coils like they hold the truth.

I could have made the stairs, I know I should,

but I’m done with the frantic sprinting of my youth.

A janitor in neon drags a mop in a circle,

smearing the grey slush across the yellow line.

The fluorescent hum turns the shadows a light purple

and I nod at the clock like this was the design.

The metal chairs are stacked on the tables over there,

upside-down spiders with their legs in the air.

I’m the only one left in the recycled oxygen,

waiting for a morning that won't let me in.