Intermittent Fault

The thumping was loud on the bridge and the hill,

but now that we’re here, the whole engine is still.

He stares at his clipboard and taps with his pen,

then asks me to tell him the story again.

A greasy black thumbprint is stuck on the page,

while I feel the slow rise of a pointless, dull rage.

He thinks I’m just hearing the wind or the rain,

as the car sits there lying and mocking my pain.