Doors open, pistons distempered
in the sun’s coming on.
Hot, greasy breeze flows round.
Leisure taken at the shoulder
by where four lanes become two.
Blink and red blink, indefinite,
pretzel bits in cupholders low
as the prairie office towers
behind and petrol are high.
Ditch in flood, needling abuzz.
We’d thought to leave, of green verge,
Marked up a list of things we could do;
Chiseling tow-trucker, that time is through.