Exhaust

The key is cold. The starter gives a groan

then dies inside the dash. The air is thin.

I sit here like a pillar made of stone

while winter tries to settle on my skin.

You blow a circle, perfect and a-skew.

It wobbles toward the frost upon the pane.

It flattens out, a ghost of gray and blue,

and leaves a smear of oil, a greasy stain.