The Loaner

This car has no history.

It smells like a new shower curtain

and a lobby where they don't let you sit.

There isn’t a single crumb in the cracks.

Back at the shop, my Honda is apart,

wearing its mileage like a bruise.

I miss the pale, dried ring of a milkshake

I dropped when the light turned green in May.

That stain is a map of a Tuesday

where I was running late and didn't care.

In here, I’m afraid to breathe too hard

in case I have to pay for the air.