Idle

The beltway is a parking lot of glass

reflecting a sun that refuses to set.

I watch the heat waves shimmer on the grass

of the median, soaked in a heavy, grey sweat.

In front of me, a yellow suction cup

holds a 'Baby on Board' sign to the pane.

I count the blinks as the cars bunch up,

a rhythmic, orange pulse in the passing lane.

It’s his birthday. No, hers. The date just hit

like a fender-bender I didn't see coming.

I’ve spent three miles trying to swallow the grit

of the call I didn't make, the engine still humming.