Seized

The engine didn't throw a rod or scream,

it gave a long and bluish sigh.

The road became a quiet, hazy dream

as every other car went rushing by.

Now I’m in a chair of molded red,

the coffee’s burnt, the clock is slow.

I’m thinking of the things the mechanic said,

and how I’ve got nowhere to go.

He left a greasy thumbprint on the latch,

a black smudge on the driver’s side.

It’s more than just a metal patch,

it’s the end of every place I tried to hide.