Mechanical Failure

The engine is a low hum, a polite throat-clear

in the gravel of the driveway. You won’t look

at the dashboard or the rearview, just the dark

of the neighbor’s hedge, stiff and austere.

You reach for the strap, and the silver tongue

stutters. It hits the plastic housing—thud—

a dull, rhythmic bluntness that gets in the blood.

This is the price for the words I have flung.

One try, two, then a third scrape of metal.

The silence is a heavy, wet wool coat.

I have a jagged apology stuck in my throat

that no amount of swallowing can settle.

Then the latch finally bites, a sharp, clean snap.

The sound of a lock, or a door, or a trap.