Dead Air

The bus stop smells like wet cigarettes and oil.

I don't know the name of this street or the way.

The panic begins its slow, steady coil

around all the things I was planning to say.

I held it out like a compass or light,

watching the one percent flicker and glow.

The screen went to black in the middle of the night,

and now I have nowhere specific to go.

I’m staring at my own face in the glass,

a smudge of a ghost in a rectangle frame.

I watch all the cars and the strangers pass,

but nobody’s here who could tell you my name.

The rain hits the pavement with a flat, hollow sound.

I’m holding a brick that was once a lifeline.

It’s funny how fast you can lose all your ground

when the signal and battery refuse to align.