He steps out of the fragrant burger shop 
A greasy paper wrapped peice of heaven in one hand
And a vanilla shake in the other
His hood is drawn 
And his beat up sneakers 
are covered with a thin coating of mud 
He pauses, before walking across the parking lot 
To his gray car with the chipping paint
And seats with cigarette holes 
He looks up 
At the overcast sky 
And ponders the idea 
Of change 
Good change
Bad change
The type of change that gets stuck in your pocket
And no matter how hard you try to get it out
only seems to come out in the washing machine
Witch inevitably breaks your wonderful clothing cleaner 
And leaves you with yet another debt to your cousin
Who just so happens to know how to fix washing machines
As his thought comes to an end 
And he steps onto the cracked pavement 
Littered with old food wrappers 
And for some reason a mud caked sock
The rain pours down from the sky 
Drenching his moment of poeticness 
In a heavy stream of curses 
and the hurried sound of feet on wet cement 
He slams the car door shut 
And sighs
Biting into his now soggy burger
While the rain made quiet splattering noises on his windshield.