Idle in the Left Lane

The rebar on the truck is rusted red

and pointed at my windshield like a threat.

I’m thinking of the things I should have said

to people I haven't even finished with yet.

For three exits I haven’t pulled a breath,

just gripped the wheel and stared into the glass.

I’m measuring the slow and metal death

of minutes that I’ll never see again pass.

The blinker on the sedan up ahead

is clicking out a rhythm, sharp and dry.

I’m stuck inside a world of things unsaid

underneath a flat and graying sky.