Idle Engine

The truck coughs, sputters, then rumbles slow,

dust swirls like ghosts in the heat, dirt blowing low.

Inside, voices rise sharp, a snap of a fight,

the door slams hard—windows shake in the fading light.

It jerks forward, nearly clips the cracked gray line,

a breath held tight like something about to unwind.

The driver’s anger smells like burnt rubber and sweat,

a diesel roar masking the words I almost forget.

This truck, old as my patience, a beast in retreat,

idle in the sun, waiting for a chance to compete.

Behind the glass, sweat beads and shadows grow long,

a rhythm of grit in a world spinning wrong.