Off the Clock

The red 4:42 on the dash is a permanent

stain on the air. I’ve been sitting here

long enough for the engine heat to die,

watching the grocery store doors hiss open

and shut like a mechanical lung.

In the back seat, the Rocky Road

is turning into a heavy, sweet soup

inside the carton. I should move.

Across the lot, the car wash is spitting

a sedan into the light, covered in

a thick, rainbow vomit of chemical suds.

It slides down the glass in slow, fat ribbons.

I’m just taking the minutes, grabbing them

like handfuls of loose change

I have no intention of spending.