Concrete Ceiling

The world has gone thin, a paper wall

that tears when I look too hard.

I’m waiting for one more shadow to fall

in this grey and oily yard.

Under the bridge where the semi-trucks roar,

the rain starts a rhythmic beat.

Then it stops, and the air is a closing door

over the steam of the street.

A lottery ticket, pink and torn,

is stuck in a yellow glare.

It’s a losing numbers kind of morn

and a heavy kind of air.