Restraint System

The rain is drumming a frantic, wet code

against the glass of the windshield today.

I’ve been sitting here since I pulled off the road

watching the world turn a heavy, dark gray.

I reach for the button but pull back my hand,

the silver tongue locked in its hard plastic throat.

I’m held by the chest by a polyester band,

a safety that feels like a hand on my coat.

If I click it and step out, the water will bite,

and the house is a cavern of things left unsaid.

So I stay in the strap in the flickering light,

anchored to plastic and wishing I’d fled.