ii.
Syzygy—burger, fries, and a Coke.
Discountpolis, around you, I labor, counting
my loose change
and keeping spaces tidy, waiting.
Unaware of the gaff— put on your blinker;
watch the yellow curb curl up into the mass of the parking
lot. “May I take your—”
thoughts will never escape
in the open air. Wait your turn,
cordoned off and buckled in.
Tree: sign: bush: radio:
steering wheel: fry oil: carbon
dioxide: mirror: food.
A stash of condiments decay quietly
in the glove compartment (mostly
mayo and bit of pickled
relish, masochistic).