A fried egg clung to the blue vinyl seat,
a yellow eye staring at the rainy street.
It had the patience of a forgotten debt,
warm and smelling of wet cigarette.
The driver cursed in a language of rust,
the windows coated in a fine, grey dust.
I sat beside it, my coat smelling of gin,
tracing the grease-map where the shift began.
When I stood to leave, the yolk gave way,
a golden smear for the rest of the day.
It looked like a sunrise on a thrift-store rug,
or the only gold I could ever afford.