Quiet Hours

The air in here is mostly dust and glue,

a basement chill that settles in the knees.

I came to find a corner out of view

where no one asks for any guarantees.

I pulled a manual from off the shelf—

Internal Combustion, printed '84.

I’m trying to keep the static to myself

and ignore the way my shadow hits the floor.

A pressed green clover fell out on my lap,

flat and brittle from a different spring.

Someone used it to mark a sudden gap

in learning how a valve or gear might swing.

They gave up on the engine, I suppose.

I leave it on the table, thin and dead.

The return slot thumps as the heavy door goes,

swallowing the things I haven't read.