Grid Lines

The sodium lights have a heavy hum

that vibrates inside the roof of the car.

I’m waiting for the feeling to go numb

before I walk to where the glass doors are.

An abandoned cart sits tilted and lone,

wedged in the rain by a concrete beam.

The asphalt has a dark and oily tone,

swirling like a feverish, chemical dream.

I watch a puddle reflect the red

of a brake light clicking across the lot.

There’s nothing left that needs to be said,

but I’m staying right here in this empty slot.