Displacement

The 18-wheeler pulls into the neighboring slot

with a hiss of air brakes that sounds like a warning.

It’s three in the morning

and the world is a cold, blue knot.

The cab is a mountain of chrome and black soot,

idling so hard the nickels in my cup holder dance.

I stand there by the pump in a half-frozen trance,

feeling the gravel vibrate under my foot.

Those tires are taller than a grown man’s chest,

caked in the gray salt of three different states.

Even in the wind, a wall of heat radiates

off the rubber, a heavy, mechanical rest.