Idle and Exhaust

The sun hasn't thought about rising yet

but the alley is already filled with the gray.

He’s out in the gravel, a dark silhouette,

cranking the diesel to start up his day.

It’s five-fifteen sharp when the cylinder kicks

and the window frame rattles a loose, wooden bone.

My glass on the nightstand is doing its tricks,

shaking with rings that I watch while alone.

Twelve minutes of waiting for the engine to heat,

while the fumes drift in through the gap in the sash.

A mechanical heart pounding under the sheet,

turning the rest of my sleep into ash.