The Interior

The neighbor’s car smelled like nothing—

just a cool, chemical silence

and leather that hadn't learned

the shape of a human spine yet.

When I sat back in my own seat,

the scent of old pennies and damp wool

rose up to meet me like a dog.

There is a fry wedged in the track,

gray and hard as a bit of driftwood.

I tried to pick it out, but my nail

just scraped the grime of three winters.

I turned the key and the engine

cleared its throat, spitting out

the smell of everything I’ve kept

long after it should have been thrown away.