Three Minute Margin

The radiator knocks a metal beat

against the tile where I have sat my heels.

I’m staring at the plastic in the heat,

waiting for the turn of heavy wheels.

A papercut of pink begins to show

inside the little window, sharp and thin.

It’s everything I didn’t want to know,

a sudden wall where open space had been.

Four in the morning is a bitter time

to watch a chemical decide your fate.

The sink is sweating out a film of grime.

I’m three minutes too early, and too late.