The Lot

The shift ended at seven and the bay door
came down behind me unhurried, like nothing was waiting
on the other side.

I sat in the truck. The radio was already off.
I had turned it off that morning and forgotten and now I

— I was going to say. I had a thing I was going to.

The coffee in the cup-holder had a film on it
the color of nothing. The cup said property of
in black letters and below that a number
that wasn't anybody's number anymore.

I picked it up. The plastic was warm
from sitting in the sun all afternoon
and the sun was still there above the warehouses,
the way the sun stays in May,
the way it doesn't know what time it is either.