Utility

The bus is ten minutes late.

The sky is a wet sheet of lead

and the red paint is flaking off

the hydrant in thick, curled scabs.

A lottery ticket is stuck to the side,

mushed into the iron by the wind.

Someone’s losing numbers

turned to pulp against the curb.

On top, the square bolt

has a deep enough dip to hold the rain.

A tiny, dirty bowl

collecting everything the clouds

didn’t want anymore.