Neutral

The rollers are massive, blue, and matted.

They thrash at the glass with a heavy thud

until the world is broken and batted

into a slurry of chemical mud.

I’m sitting in neutral, hands off the wheel,

while the hot wax smells like a funeral pyre.

There’s a panic in how the metal must feel

under the weight of the water’s desire.

White foam slides down the side of the pane

like thick, slow phlegm from a giant’s throat.

I am holding my breath in the center lane

waiting for something to sink or to float.