Idling on the I-95

The delivery truck in front of me has a door

that rattles like a loose tooth. We’ve moved

ten feet in twenty minutes. The radio man laughed—

a sharp, wet sound that caught me in the throat.

It was your laugh. The one you used when you

were winning at cards or when you were lying.

Now I’m stuck here with the red glow of brakes

bleeding into a puddle of flat cola in the cup holder.

I can’t turn the car around. I can’t even look away

from the rust spot on that truck, shaped like a lung.

I’m just sitting in the heat, letting the memory

of the way we ended finally pull up beside me.