Idling at Exit 14

The radio gave up five miles back

near the exit for the refinery.

Now there is only the rhythmic click

of a blinker that won't ever turn,

and the rebar on the truck ahead

pointing like rusted fingers at my glass.

I watch the man in the lane to my left.

He is tearing at the skin near his nail,

a slow, red ruin in the afternoon light.

The silver sedan in front of us

is melting at the edges,

heat ripples turning the trunk to water.

I thought I’d left that phone call

buried under the morning’s urgent noise.

But in the brake-light glare,

with the engine humming a low, flat note,

it finally pulls alongside me

and rolls down the window.