Transmission

The brick was loose, just like he said.

I scraped my knuckles pulling it back

to find the key, cold and heavy as lead.

The garage door groaned on a rusted track.

Everything smells like regular unleaded

and damp cardboard giving up the ghost.

The boxes are soft, the edges shredded

by time and the things he loved the most.

I found the radio on the workbench shelf,

black plastic crusted in sawdust and grease.

I turned the knob and it spoke to itself,

a low hum of static that wouldn't cease.

Inside the battery door, a slip of blue—

a receipt for a spark plug from '82.

He saved the proof of a spark he once knew,

while the rest of the world just moved on through.