Substitutions

The seat is notched two clicks too far forward

for my legs, but I don't want to touch the lever.

My own car is sitting in a gravel lot

with a gasket blown wide open.

I tried to signal left on 5th

and the wipers started dragging across the glass,

shrieking over a dry, grey smear

because I hit the wrong stalk.

There’s a dry cleaner’s receipt in the console,

faded so bad the name is a ghost.

It’s for three shirts I’ll never wear,

wedged in the grit of a life I’m just borrowing.