Grid

The mechanic is banging a wrench on a rim,

and the light in this lobby is yellow and dim.

The coffee is burnt and the pot is bone dry,

so I lean back my head and I look at the sky.

A ceiling of squares in a long, dusty row,

I’m counting them up just to watch the clock go.

Seventy-four of them, pitted and white,

holding the weight of the flickering light.

The fourth one is marked by a deep, rusty stain,

like a thumbprint of oil or a memory of rain.

It sits there alone in the middle of the stack,

waiting for someone to give the keys back.