It's Tuesday and the car's dead.
I reconsider my place in society
while every stoplight in the city turns red.

I decide not drinking has done me no good.
The city swells and smarms around me.
It's Tuesday and the car's dead.

I calculate walkable distances. My head
hurts. The city asks, What good's not drinking
when every stoplight in this city's gone red?

It probably should go unsaid
that I take the city's point. The city offers martinis.
But it's Tuesday and the car's dead.

I try to ignore my existential dread
by repeating, Everything will work out accordingly.
While every stoplight in the city turns red

I wonder if, from spite, canaries know death's
coming and lie. Imitate sobriety.
It's Tuesday and the car's dead
and every stoplight in this city's turned red.