Rest Stop

Rest Stop

Driving three hours north 
I needed to stop 
for bowel relief, gas and 
a vending‑machine Payday bar.

A static‑voiced Otis Redding cutoffed 
with the ignition, 
the door closing shut, 
yielding to the ventilated drone 
of the rest‑area lobby—

a vent’s thin rattle making me shiver 
the same way the free maps 
in the brochure rack tick 
against the heat vent.

An arrow pointed west to 
the men’s room, 
the swing doors echoing 
the open/close of each flush, 
the inhale of urine cakes/toilet cleaner.

In the squeak I almost hear your name, 
the pressure of each vowel/consonant 
tightening what 
my body needed to do.

From outside there is the idle 
of trucks, a brake hiss, 
the smell of salt 
lifting from the asphalt waiting
to settle on my plaid clothes.

There is a failed signal between 
the firing of the ignition 
and the radio humming 
that prevents me

from completing 
your name, 
returning to 
my unfurnished house 
with a body that refuses 
to warm.