Broke Down.

Published October 10, 2013 by April Fox

The numbers on the clock run themselves up
like debt
hold us captive in
the same way
trying to pay back
what we’ve borrowed
interest without

On the side of the road, on the
curb, hood up, broken down
flashing lights behind and a reassuring
to stick around, I pondered
the contents of my glove box
the french fries left to dry out in the back seat
a change of name
and scenery.

Locked into gear, I rolled back
and then stopped
with nowhere to go.

I held my hands out, small and pale
long fingers, knuckles like knots
on driftwood
crept up on the realization
that they are naked
by themselves.

I could smell the grass behind me, hear the
faint chirp of brakes as people, curious,
slowed down to take a peek and feeling cheated out of
blood or some sobbing
ingenue, desolate and desperate-
hurry on.

There is a glass bottle, half full of tea on the floor board of the back seat
and I think, maybe, a blanket in the very back
dusty with the crumbs of half-eaten cookies and slightly rank
with the residue
of old juice and
being forgotten

There is no one in the drivers seat.
The sky is pink and grey and the lights flash and turn the air
a creepy ozone purple and my eyes are closed now

Clock rolls on, adding charges by the second,
late fees and phone calls
wondering where
I’ve been

The asphalt breathes into the soles of my shoes
I could start walking
but I’m where I need to be
right now.

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