Prompt: Write an express poem.

Breakdown

The old green sedan sits at the side
of the highway exit, hood propped high.
It must be bad because his feet
are off the ground. He’s climbed
onto the frame on bent knee, head
hovering over the engine block
as if surrendering in child’s pose
or yielding to the third call
for prayer. I can see his shoulder
move, but his arm is lost in the tangle
of hoses, wires, and metal.
She sits in the front seat in the green
polo shirt of her fast-food
uniform with her elbow propped
in the space of the rolled-down
window and her head cradled
in her right hand. Her eyes are empty
and fixed on a distant point, or perhaps,
the near future where she has to explain
her lateness again. But her face shows
no sign of angst or anger, no activity
except for the autonomic open and close
of eyelids—just an expression
that screams, “I am done.”

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013