Idling

The delivery truck has been stalled for an hour

and the bridge is a parking lot of salt and exhaust.

With the radio dead, I lose the power

to ignore the math of everything I’ve lost.

The blinker in front of me is a steady, orange throb,

a rhythmic reminder of a point I didn't make.

I sit in the heat of this idling mob

and count up every predictable mistake.