Zero Miles Per Hour

The I-95 is a parking lot tonight.

A stalled truck two miles up is holding us hostage,

and my brain is finally catching the bumper

of the things I tried to outrun at eighty miles an hour.

I’ve been staring at the 'How’s My Driving' sticker

on the Honda in front of me for twenty minutes.

I don't have an answer for the 1-800 number.

The orange turn signal on my dash

clicks and blinks against the windshield,

lighting up the rain in rhythmic bursts.

I’m just sitting here.

Nowhere to go but backward into my own head.