Upholstery

The air in his car tasted like a brochure,

all factory glue and leather that never saw a cow.

I sat on the edge of the seat,

trying not to leave a dent in the perfection.

When I climbed back into my own,

the door groaned a familiar greeting.

It smells of cold coffee and damp floor mats,

of every winter I didn't quite finish.

A receipt for oil and a pack of gum

is jammed deep in the defrost vent,

turned white by the July sun.

It is a record of everywhere I actually went.