Idle

The floorboards are humming a low, diesel note

that rattles the loose change on the kitchen sill.

It’s been twenty minutes of clearing its throat,

a rusted-out heavy that can’t keep still.

I watch from the blinds as the exhaust plumes grey,

smelling of kerosene and a winter about to start.

The driver is leaning the other way,

checking a list or a map or a broken heart.

He climbs out and leaves a dark, muddy smear

on the chrome running board where his boot hit.

The engine gives a final, metallic sneer

and the silence that follows is the worst part of it.