Holding Charge

Diesel rattles the ceramic mug,

making the coffee jitter in its skin.

Outside, a flatbed gives a heavy shrug,

hauling the skeletons of rusted tin.

The driver pulls the frayed nylon taut.

It’s holding on by a prayer and a thread.

Everything we bought and then forgot

is piled up high and nodding in his bed.

In the pothole, an oily, rainbow eye

stares back at the grill’s jagged, silver teeth.

We wait for the strap to snap or the sky

to drop whatever’s hiding underneath.