maybe they slipped into your pocket
with the Zippo and the loose change
the smell of fuel and toolboxes

the vending machine screams
before giving us its treats
sweet and wrapped in plastic

my shoes leave muddy half moons
on the carpet
but I don’t know where the dirt is coming from

the radio keeps playing me sad songs
a singer promising things
to a room that echoes
lyrics needling me into a corner

I lie awake counting the windows
each one waiting for a rock
waiting for the pop
and clank

outside a dog shakes
water from its fur
the streetlight turning every drop
into tiny spears
that arc like our hopes
across the asphalt