Dead Stick

The silence was worse than the grind.

One second I was pushing eighty,

the next, the pedal was just a piece of rubber

and the lane was closing in.

I’m sitting on the rusted guardrail now,

watching the trucks shake the pavement.

There’s no smoke under the hood,

just a hot, metallic smell of failure.

I left an oily thumbprint on the chrome

when I slammed the door shut,

a dark smudge on the only thing I own

that’s supposed to move.