Cold Start

Five A.M. and the window starts to shake,

the neighbor’s diesel doing what it takes

to rattle the glass and the teeth in my head.

I’m tasting the exhaust while I’m lying in bed.

It’s a blue-smoke thick and a heavy-oil stink,

turning the morning to the color of ink.

I look through the screen at the rust and the grime,

at a man wasting gas and a man wasting time.

The side-mirror’s cracked, a spider-webbed mess,

held on by duct tape and a prayer, I guess.

The engine finally catches, a roar and a cough,

and the vibration dies as he finally pulls off.