Borrowed Bumper

The air thick with someone else's cherry scent,

and the faint, old smell of fries that someone meant

to clean, but didn't. This isn't my own space,

just a temporary shell, a borrowed place.

I grip the wheel, my hands feel out of sync,

with all these settings, this unfamiliar blink

of dashboard lights. A faded sticker, 'Support Our Troops,'

peeling from the bumper, a tiny loop

of sticky plastic, coming undone.

It's not my cause, not battles I have won.

Just moving this vessel, not quite mine,

down roads that aren't my usual line.

And when I park it, feeling small and gray,

I'll hand the keys back, and walk away.