The Shoulder

The steam was a ghost in the high-beam’s glare,

sweet-smelling and thick on the glass.

The radiator gave out a cough for the air

and died on the sun-scorched grass.

I’m sitting on the curb where the gravel is sharp,

watching the taillights go by.

The engine is playing a slow, cooling harp,

a ticking that’s dry as a lie.

The tow truck is late and the mosquitoes are out,

circling the heat of the hood.

I’m leaning my head on a fender of doubt

and doing the best that I could.