Grid System

The seagull is dismantling a greasy bag

on the concrete island, and I’m just standing here,

watching a man three rows over press a plastic button

again and again. His car doesn't recognize him.

He looks so certain, then so small, then angry,

pointing the little black fob like a weapon at a sedan

that isn't his. I should say something, but the sun

is bleaching a receipt for a transmission flush

left under my wiper, and I’m caught in the heat,

in the sheer, radiating embarrassment of being

a person in a place with no shade. I wait until

he finally looks at the plate and his shoulders drop,

and I hate how much I know that specific sound—

not a sound, really, just the air leaving a chest

that thought it was home, but was actually just

standing in the wrong slot of a very large grid.