72 Hours

The world is a photocopy of a photocopy,

gray on gray with the contrast turned down.

My knees are a little too loose and too sloppy

for a walk through the skeletal parts of the town.

Under the bridge, the concrete is vast,

a ceiling of transit that hums with a beat.

I watch how the water on plastic is cast,

and wait for the rain to return to the street.

Above me the expansion joints shudder and thud,

a wet vibration that rattles my teeth.

I’m standing in oil and a thin skim of mud,

watching a soda can shiver beneath.