Transmission

The heater is the only thing talking.

He keeps his eyes on the grey asphalt

and his jaw stays locked in a vault

I haven't been able to crack in years.

He pulls the visor down against the glare.

I look at the map and pretend I’m not there.

The turn signal clicks in the empty air—

a steady, mechanical beat that doesn't care

if we ever reach the end of the road.

I want to ask him if he’s ever been afraid,

but I just watch his hands on the wheel,

veined and heavy like stones.