Off the Rails

It’s nose-down in the drainage ditch,

a wire skeleton missing its pride.

The wind gives the front wheel a nervous twitch,

spinning the rust and the silence inside.

Plastered to the mesh is a flyer for ham,

half-off and soggy, a pink, blurred mess.

Nobody’s coming to clear the jam

or claim the metal in its distress.

It’s a mile from the neon and the sliding doors,

resting where the asphalt meets the weeds.

A hollow reminder of the chore of chores,

and the way we abandon our simplest needs.