I enter and inhale the shadows
coated with the invading dust
of everslow construction.
Amidst the swirling haze
lingering about my tennis shoes
I see a half-buried can of coke
forgotten by a hardhat weeks ago,
a plastic wrapper that used to say “Hostess”
but only reads “oste” now,
a discarded card from a hotel:
HAIRDRYER IN CLOSET,
and a sticker ‘y name i’
poking out of the grime.
From the concrete ceiling
I catch a whiff of someone else’s yesterday—
something between gasoline and pizzabreath.
None of the cars overhead
—the landlocked jetplanes—seem to care.
Care about the sticker, card, wrapper,
can of coke, or someone else’s yesterday.
And so I suppose I shouldn’t either.
I inhale the light
leaving that strange world
shifting behind me in the shadows.