At the bus stop, a torn coupon for pork chops
keeps sticking to my shoe like a needy tongue.
Rain has turned the ink to a blue bruise,
and the smiling pig now looks mildly employed.
A man beside me carries lilies in a bucket
that once held pickled herring.
Everything tonight has a second career,
even the moon, hanging over Lidl
like a dented pan nobody admits to licking.
I miss you most in the smell of wet receipts.