DMV Sky

Number A-47, called, then paused.

Not me. Just a flicker of fluorescent cause

and effect. The air, it hums, a low, sad drone.

And something like stale coffee, left alone.

I watch a fly, its tiny shadow crawl

across the tile above me, ready to fall.

A perforated square, a cheap white thing.

And in its center, like a spreading wing,

a water stain. A continent, brown and old.

I traced its edges, stories never told,

as the fly made its journey, slow and slight.

Another hour gone, swallowed by the light.

My neck aches, staring at that patch of mold.

Still waiting for my number, still growing cold.