Tin Roof Planetarium

At the bus depot after midnight, rain combs the sodium light. Puddles open like small observatories, each one holding a cracked moon and the red pulse of the vending machine.

A mechanic shuts his toolbox; metal sings once, then sleeps. Steam lifts from grates in patient ribbons, as if the street were learning calligraphy from a hand made of warm breath.

I wait beneath the tin awning, coffee cooling in my palm. Buses kneel and rise like tired animals, doors breathing open, breathing shut, their windows carrying strangers like lit aquariums.

When dawn finally threads the clouds with pale copper, the whole station turns transparent for a moment. Even my shadow loosens from my shoes and walks ahead, certain of morning.