DN24 R6

I drink soda probably way too much. It's sitting here beside me in the car, full to the top of the Pepsi symbol, and the condensation is making the cup-holder damp. DN24, the light post says in front of the car. R6. There's little holes in every letter and number, marks where someone has tacked or nailed them in, and I almost get out of the driver's seat to take a closer look, put my hands against the metal to feel every dent. 

I don't. I watch the sun until my eyes smart and spark, and I squint at the little hole the clouds have made in the sky. 

Tonight's sunset looks like peach rings. There are cracks in the wood of the light-post. The ice has started to melt in the plastic gas station cup, watering down the Dr. Pepper.

I press my nose against the driver's side window and let my high fructose corn syrup breath make fogged shapes in the glass.