The Night Shift

The white lines are stitches on a long, black arm

leading me back to the grief of the farm.

I’m driving through shadows to bury my own

in a town where the silence is carved into stone.

I passed a semi flipped over on the right

its hazards were pulsing a rhythmic, red light.

A heartbeat in the pines, a mechanical throb

for a man who just lost his truck and his job.

The dashes go under the hood one by one

a countdown to morning, a race with the sun.

There’s a comfort in moving while the world is asleep

and the secrets of engines are all I can keep.