he drives down the crowded street, music too loud, eyes darting to the phone in the cup holder, watching the directions at a snail’s pace

his laptop in the bag on the floor board, his tools in the trunk, his mind racing with the need to write the thoughts that spin out of control

why is traffic always stopped when there is no reason

he looks into the rear view mirror at the angry face inching up closer to his stopped vehicle

he glares, taps his fingers on the wheel in time with the drums, mutters angrily and forces himself to breathe

the scent of lavender in the car, supposedly calming makes him think about wildflowers and her long hair draped across his chest

there must be more to life than this constant race to be first sitting still

he fixes things, that’s what he does, but he is self aware enough to realize his need to fix things harbors from being unable to fix himself

just self aware enough to be miserable, just enough to know somethings are broken no matter the good intentions

he troubleshoots, traces the problems with a practiced eye and intuition, eventually laying the root causes out in the open

except for when he looks in the mirror, he sees the issues, the root problems, but is powerless, too clumsy, too unsure to solve them

i see your signal but i don’t know what you mean to do

if he were a technician, he would fix the missed connections in his chest and head, he would resolder them into a fully functional machine again

he has the tools the knowledge to fix the woes in other with words and gestures and understanding, if he were a technician he would do the same for himself

if he were