Idle

The dashboard clock says 5:10.

If I go home now, I’m the one

who cooks, who listens, who mends.

But here, the rain is making

little distorted pebbles on the glass.

The swing set in the church lot

is a blur of rusted chains.

Nobody knows I’m sitting here.

The engine is off.

I’m just a body in a seat,

stretching out the minutes

until the light finally fails

and the ignition becomes

a thing I have to do.