A Poem I Wrote at Work, Poem 8

Parking Meter

Short brother
of street lamps and stop signs.
The arm rest of loiterers,
impromptu bike rack,
thin man guardians of cars.
But in the midst of vandalism,
you sleepy cyclops
utter nothing from your slit mouth.
When you are not ruled by time,
you keep track by the shifts of heat.
When are you full ever?javascript:void(0)
Publish
How many quarters before you are whole?
When I was homeless,
I dreamed of strength enough
to topple you like a pinata.