The Hourly Rate

The digital clock on the dashboard glows.

5:21 becomes 5:22 in a soundless snap.

I am sitting in the heat of my own car,

my hands still gripping the wheel at ten and two.

She looked at me over her glasses and said

I keep my schedule full so my skin stays thick.

She said I’m a building with the lights on

but the front door is bolted from the inside.

I wanted to tell her I pay her to listen,

not to find the soft spot under my ribs.

But the silence in the driveway is too loud,

and the crack in the plastic dash looks like a vein

running away from the center of the world.