When she tells him
the mechanic called,
her front brakes need
replacing, his reply
breaks up
into
single-
cell
organisms:
“What?
Why?”
Crackle
of phone.
It doesn’t seem to matter
these things wear out
after a certain time.
He is sure
the distance traveled
matters more,
and if you go by numbers,
she has not journeyed
far enough. He tells her
it must be the way
she drives, a series
of stops and starts.
When she asks
if he is blaming her,
he asks:
“What?
No.”
Long
pause.
Their silence becomes
everything about them,
the high expense
of worry, this
abrupt urge
to stop,
start.