Gridlock

The heat is coming off the flatbed

in waves that make the bridge look

like it’s melting into the river.

A mile of brakes and idle engines.

Up ahead, they’ve stacked the wrecks.

Four sedans squeezed into a cube

of glass and crumpled blue paint.

I can see a single white sneaker

pinned between the roof and the seat.

It’s been there for ten miles.

I keep thinking of how my brother

used to leave his shoes in the hall

for everyone to trip over.

The smell of hot tar is getting inside.