Familiar Air

The friend's car, straight from the lot,

smelled like plastic, sharp and clean.

A kind of future, freshly bought,

a polished, bright, unworn scene.

Then mine again, the door clicked shut,

a different scent, a softer blur.

Old coffee grounds, a dog's dry rut,

a faint, familiar, stale perfume.

My cheek against the worn-out seat,

a fabric history, deeply set.

The dulling comfort, bittersweet,

the things you haven't given yet

a wash.

This smell. This is what I drive.