I’m out from under
a play rug of a road
crossing tracks
leading to some town
on the outskirts
The road u-turns
in the corners, but
rather than driving endlessly
I pull over by the back wall
of the waiting room
and let the meter run
Trees grow over the tracks
Petals are falling
like beds are being made
I lie down too
Leave my impression
just in case it matters
to mattresses
I let the meter run
A storm stumps the branches
There’s a hole in the trunk
A slow tuck dunk tank bump
like an eye letting in woodpeckers
I crumble the crayon
on the wall, snap a ruler
and look out the floor
to ceiling windows
with no oversight
or understanding
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