Concrete Ceiling

The spreadsheet is still humming

somewhere behind my eyes.

The apartment walls are coming

down to a smaller size.

I-95 is a heavy, gray shelf

dripping oil on the street.

I’m trying to find myself

on tired, swollen feet.

The rain starts and then quits

like a faucet that's loose.

A soda can floats in the pits

of the rainbow-slick juice.

The sodium light is a stain

on the concrete and the rust.

Three days of thinking in vain.

Three days of breathing in dust.