Traffic Overhead

The engine gave up with a polite click.

Now I am down in the throat of it,

where the concrete pillars grow like trees

and the air tastes of old tires and rain.

Above me, the world is a rhythmic thumping,

a heartbeat of commuters I can't see.

Down here, the silence is heavy as a wet coat.

I find a work glove half-buried in the mud,

fingers curled as if it’s still trying

to hold onto something.

It’s frozen there, stiff and yellow,

waiting for a hand that isn't coming back.