Without destination, I am powerless
behind a Civic’s bumper. The cars on 315–
straight shot viewable from my window–

travel without obstruction. In the Prius
beside me is a couple wrapped around
each other during meaningless red light.

The world is ending in these fumes and
still, I have been staring at this Wendy’s
sign, fantasizing about my lips on

a burger square, biting into processed
buns, cramming my mouth with fingers of
fries, then watching the sky turn jaundice.

(originally published in Corvus Review, Winter 2022)