The 11:15

The bus app says six minutes to go

but the screen is a frozen gray.

I’m standing here in the street light’s glow

thinking of everything I didn't say.

Then the bank wall lets out a hiss,

a mechanical pop from the dirt.

It’s a cold and rhythmic kind of kiss

soaking the sleeve of my only good shirt.

The mulch is a cloud of rising rot

stinking of water and old, wet wood.

I’m trapped in this dark and soggy spot

standing where no one ever should.