Uncle’s Static

The air was thick, like old machine oil,

and dust that made the throat feel tight.

Another box, another coil

of faded wire, not worth the fight.

Beneath a wrench, all greasy, dark,

a spark plug receipt, brittle, brown,

from '88, left its harsh mark.

This place, a silence, weighing down.

Then, a radio, forgotten thing,

I nudged the plug, a frayed old cord.

A crackle came, a sudden sting,

a scratch of song, a single word.

A woman singing, thin and far,

through static haze, she made her plea.

Then silence fell, behind the car,

just oil rags, looking back at me.