on the side of the road

you need a vacation
she tells me as I sit
on the ground
changing a flat
tire.
the lug nuts
are hard to turn. the pavement
is cold
and wet. I can see
the short nail
imbedded in a groove
of the black rubber tread.
a vacation, I say to myself.
what would that be like.
who would I go with.
you need to get away, she says.
standing over
me, her shadow on top
of my hands as I jack
the car up higher
and pull the tire off.
you never take a vacation,
she says.
work work work.
she lights a cigarette
and puts one hand on her hip.
she's wearing a pencil
skirt and black heels.
I got to get out of here
too, she says.
look at us.
on the side of the road
changing a tire.
she leans against the car.
don't lean on the car,
I tell her.
which makes her sigh
and pace in the gravel.
how long is this going to take?
don't you have triple
A. who doesn't have
triple A?
what are we doing here?
I should be in Rome,
or Paris, anywhere but here.
i'm not the kind of person
who should be standing
on the side of the road
with a flat tire.
I think about all the things
I could say to her,
but I don't.
I change the tire, put the flat
in the trunk, then we
drive away.