Shoulder Work

The rhythm of the road just fell apart,

a sudden coughing fit from the metal heart.

I rolled it to the gravel where the weeds grow tall,

and watched the evening shadows start to crawl.

The engine makes a ticking, cooling sound,

like a clock that’s finally finished being wound.

A plastic cap is lying in the oil and the dirt,

looking small and useless, like a button from a shirt.

I’ve got a yellow receipt and a three-mile hike,

in shoes that were never meant for a path like this.

The tow truck took the keys and the heavy, steel frame,

leaving me with a walk and no one left to blame.