The Stop-Start

The engine bucks, a familiar kind of protest,

as if the old machine has learned his mood.

He brakes too hard, always, a small request

for sudden stillness, not quite understood

by the seatbelt, which locks up tight again.

I pull the strap from my throat, a habit now.

Then the lurch forward, pushing through the rain,

past the curb, where he almost hit the bough

of the neighbor's garbage can. He never sees it there.

His head just shakes, a small, impatient sigh.

Then he's gone, leaving me to breathe the air

that smells of gasoline, and wonder why.