The Vent

It comes off the wet brick

and out of the iron grate

at the sidewalk’s edge.

A heavy, scorched sweetness

like a toaster left on too long

or a box of stripped wires

in a basement that stays damp.

I can’t name the part that hurts.

It’s just the smell of four o'clock

in a room with wood paneling

and the hum of a fridge that never stops.

It’s the taste of a copper penny

held tight against the tongue.