Idling

The expressway is a parking lot of brake lights.

Red circles burned into my retinas.

The radio gave up five miles ago,

leaving me with a dry, electric hiss.

I forgot to call my sister back.

She’s probably sitting on her porch

wondering why I’m always late or missing.

A dead horsefly is stuck in the defrost vent,

brittle legs pointed at the ceiling,

just waiting for a breeze that isn't coming.