The kebab shop closed at midnight,
but the rotisserie kept turning in the dark
like a small, greasy planet nobody could save.
A tomato slice clung to the sidewalk
with the wet patience of a failed marriage.
Someone had drawn a halo on the dumpster lid.
Under it, a torn latex glove fluttered,
five exhausted fingers blessing the wind.
I stood there smelling onion, rain, and old fryer oil,
and felt, for one stupid second, almost forgiven.