it was raining when she said everything was fine

lou reads the classifieds aloud
between mouthfuls of cold coffee and
cough drops.

tom waits for a bus that doesn’t run
on sundays anymore,
kicking bottlecaps into the gutter
like he’s playing a game with god.

the sun’s a smear of margarine
on aluminum sky—
yellow, but trying too hard.

there’s a woman
in a green coat
dragging a suitcase that sounds
like a broken song.
i think she used to work at the cineplex
before it became a yoga studio
or a vape shop.
same difference.

some kid yells “yo!”
into the static of his phone
like the future’s answering.

lou lights a cigarette and says
this is just a scene, man,
but i know he’s lying.
this is the whole film.
no edits.
no soundtrack.

just sidewalk chalk ghosts
melting in the drizzle,
and the city
not apologizing
for anything.

you ever hear a train whistle
and feel your chest hollow out?
that’s what this poem is.
just that.
forever.