Stationary

The landlord’s coming for the keys on Friday.

I’m moving stacks of yellowed paper,

receipts for spark plugs from 1984.

The air is thick with the scent of old grease

and a heap of rags left in a rusted bucket,

stiff with 10W-30 and the grit of a winter

he never actually finished the truck.

I plugged in the Zenith by the workbench

just to see if the internal fuse had blown.

Instead, the static cleared to a ballgame,

bottom of the ninth, a voice from the city

cutting through the dust like he was still home.