Lot 4B

The burger wrapper is getting greasy on the dash.

I’m watching the rain smear the windshield

while a paper cup rolls across the lane.

It’s Tuesday and I don't want to go in.

A gust of wind caught a chrome skeleton,

one of those carts with the wobbly leg,

and sent it screaming toward the light pole.

The crash was a dull, hollow thud.

It’s resting there now, tilted on the curb,

one front wheel spinning like a frantic fan,

blurring in the dark while the metal settles

into the quiet of a dead parking lot.