I’m sitting here idling the engine

I’m sitting here idling the engine,

watching the rain smear the glass of the dash.

There’s a pull in my pocket, a heavy intention,

like a pocket of stones or a handful of cash.

It’s a glass-and-zinc slab in the palm of my hand,

a cold, quiet anchor that’s dragging the floor.

I’m waiting for signals I don’t understand

to tell me it’s okay to open the door.

The battery’s warm but the screen stays as black

as the streetlights reflecting the oil in a crack.