Nylon Percussion

At 3 AM the car lot is a ghost,

but the wind is hitting metal like a drum.

I’m walking past the empty hitching post

where the flags are making everything feel numb.

They snap like whips against the hollow pole,

a rhythmic, frantic clinking in the cold.

It’s a violent kind of sound that takes a toll,

like something being broken that was once so bold.

The nylon screams and then it goes quite slack,

waiting for the next big gust to bite.

I keep my head down, following the track,

while the dealership is tearing up the night.