Low Idle

The neighbor’s leaving in a diesel cloud,

a heavy, shaking thing.

The engine is a bit too loud,

making the quarters sing.

I’m watching circles in my cup,

the coffee’s rhythmic beat.

They’re loading all the boxes up

and idling in the street.

The floorboards catch the engine’s bone,

a shudder through the wood.

I’m standing in the kitchen, all alone,

wondering if I should.