Flat Tire

All there is to do
Is to paint constellations in the fog of the windows
While I rest my head in the semi-idleness of the rushing traffic
Waiting for you to return the phone call
That I know you won't make

Feel the slightly firm presence of my tongue
Tightly pressed against my teeth that I can't stop from gritting

All there is now
Is me sitting here looking outside the window at my own reflection
Slowly trying to erase the features of your face
And make this more pretty

The slightly slumped over stranded feeling
And gentle swaying in the wind like I've been cast loose and free
Stuck here on I-10 in the middle of god-knows-where
Casually tracing the stars with an index finger
Thinking of anything but my flat tire