Burned Plastic

The door clicked shut, the blast furnace heat

trapped inside the car, a stale, thick breath.

I reached, out of habit, for the wheel,

and snatched my hand back, hissed.

Black plastic, scorching, branding the palm,

a smell of hot chemicals, a warning.

Every surface radiating the sun's rage,

the seatbelt buckle a tiny iron bar,

the air itself a heavy, wet blanket.

My skin prickled, then stung.

Just driving home,

through this oven of a city,

feeling cooked, inside and out.

The simple act of touch,

a punishment.