Slow Burn

The hood of the car is a heavy slate lid.

The belt is a squeal in the cold.

I’m paying the price for the things that I did,

for a life that is getting too old.

The battery terminal’s covered in grit,

a bloom of a chemical blue.

It looks like a fire that hasn’t been lit,

a crust that is eating the view.

I touch the connection and feel the decay,

the turquoise dust on my skin.

The acid is eating the copper away,

letting the winter crawl in.